Let the Ghosts lie Still
by Elanthra
Summary: It's 8014NC and the World Ethics Committee has an important decision to make. How will they vote? A clone's story. Shep angst. Special guest star appearance of Daniel Jackson.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

'Let the Ghosts lie Still' is a more 'normal' story after my aberration that was 'Madacran' but, be warned, it _is_ DEATHFIC! But I feel it is one that offers hope...

There are minor references to episodes of all 5 seasons of SGA, in particular, as they featured Daniel, 'Last Contact' and 'Lost Tribe'.

It's complete at just over 43,000 words so, as usual, I'm all ready, apart from some tweaking, to update at regular intervals.

* * *

Let the Ghosts lie Still

Prologue

It is time to go.

Why?

The light never answers. And it is darkness that calls and beckons. He honestly doesn't want to go.

And he looks to the Others. Safety. He's felt happiness here. Gratitude for that. A whole mix of stuff that he'd never been able to put into words back there. That wraps up round your heart. Whatever that is. And holds it tight forever in eternity.

In fact, there are no words here and he's surprised he even knows words again.

Light.

Purity.

Emotion only.

Something is sucking at him. Tugging. Pulling at the edges. And it's... scary. When he doesn't feel fear here. When he feels nothing but safe here.

Darkness. Darkness is tugging him back to there. And there is nothing he can do. Not even the Others can help him. They are in the light. And he is not.

And he's overwhelmed with sorrow.

Is this wrong? To feel sorrow? For myself?

No, says the darkness. For the darkness is sorrow.

Why? Why me? His mind searches. But there is nothing to search.

Nothing...

The light had taken him to nothing.

He looks back. One last yearning glimpse that is sorrow. The light is distant. Small. Like a gold coin. His mind searches and now finds a memory. Once, long ago, he tossed a coin...

The light had taken him to nothing, and now the darkness pulls him under, weighing him down, drowning him in life once more.

-oAo-

Chapter One

File Subject: 2486/92B.

'_Subject 2486/92B! I do sometimes wish we can call him by his proper name - like we're pretending we don't know it!'_

Logged in: Senior Technician Carter Kjeldsen. Assistant Technician Siom Bonde.

Report Time: 10.02.

Report Date: 28.13.8013

Date of last report: 21.13.8013

General Status: No marked change.

Toxicity level: Grade 1-2 level constant.

'_Wish we could get this wretched thing back down to Grade One again – he's been in there too long.'_

'_Tell me about it.' _

Temperature: -198 C. Sensors indicate little significant variation over past week.

Level of Zb16 coolant: Optimum levels

Level of Sy208 protectorant: -1 below optimum. Suggest increase input of nanomolecules to 28 cu. Cap.

Extracellular: Maintained.

Intracellular: Maintained.

Specifics: Heart: ditto

Lungs: ditto

Liver: ditto. Addition of Zd2 enzymes has held previous deterioration of 7.9.8013.

Kidneys: ditto

Abdomen, intestines, stomach: Slight change. Recommend daily appraisal.

Skin and hair tissue: ditto. Previous noted jaundice in recession.

Muscle: Slight deterioration. Not to the low levels of 6.6.8009 as yet. Recommend supplements of Hx10 fluids in two weeks.

'_Hopefully they'll give the permit for recovery soon and these supplements won't be necessary. Don't think a second round of those things will do him an awful lot of good. He needs exercise and fresh air, not drugs.' _

Bone: ditto

Corneas: Hydration 92H. Slight change. Though satisfactory recovery from 7.9.8013.

Brain: Continuing anomaly of minor fluctuations in electrical impulses.

'_I just don't get this. I'm typing in: Subject is 'conscious'? I've been asking Professor Osterholt if he thinks it's possible.'_

'_Well, let's hope so!'_

'_Yes, but seriously, his brain cells have been activated before recovery has been initialised? On their own? And it's nothing to do with us? These are sub-zero temperatures.'_

'_Oh, I feel a theory coming on here! You gonna write a Paper?'_

'_Might.'_

'_Consciousness, awareness of persona is separate from body? Even triggered perhaps by the discussions in Oslo. He/it _knows_?' _

Other Recommendations: Full vitamin and mineral support.

Conclusion: All preparations for recovery are complete when the Ethics Committee gives the go-ahead. Bloods compatible to subject 2486/92B are on the order schedule and ready for the full recommended transfusion.

'_That had better be soon! We want to meet this guy at long last! Did I ever tell you that my great great aunt was in on this from the very start?'_

'_Oh, loads of times. I'm just about ready for a cuppa now. Want to join me? Ujarak tells me the Rest Room has Leite Cake on the Specials today.'_

'_Our subject gets to you like that, does he? Makes you fancy chocolate cake like rotten?'_

'_Well, yes, indeed, Carter, a girl can fantasize all she likes, and then she's just got to have a substitute for-'_

'_Shhh! I don't want to know and I'm trying to concentrate here! But if Professor Osterholt ever gets to hear how long you take over assessing subject 2486/92B's reproductive organs, you'll be out of this scheme before you can think sheets and soft lights.' _

Logged Out: C. Kjeldsen. S. Bonde.

Time: 10.53

-oAo-

Washington Hjelm swipes off his optics and rubs hard at his eyes with the palms of his hands. A headache now. He's been staring at the screen for too long. Martya will scold him as she hands him water and painkillers. He swivels his chair round, squinting at the view through the wide panoramic balcony window of his study. This isn't going to do his migraine any good, but the scene is breathtaking. A golden sea caught in a blazing sunset. Nothing but wide open sky and ocean, punctuated with black rocks at the edges, streaked with the white glimmer wash of a playful tide.

It always has this effect on him. It never ceases to amaze. To inspire. And he gives thanks to whichever immortal may be responsible, though he's convinced it is all down to simple good luck, that his great grandfather, Kuuk Hjelm had chosen this location, just outside of Sisimiut for his home.

He remembers so many happy childhood memories here and is glad of its nurturing on his formative years. He only wishes he could be here more often. And even now Martya is packing his bags and ordering his place on board the airship for his trip to Oslo tomorrow.

He has come a long way since his boyhood. He replaces his optics, glancing over to the filing system where sit neat rows of data rings of his many published treatises and papers.

And he looks back to his holo screen with more than a little stirring of pride.

'_Let The Ghosts Lie Still'. _

_Concluding Notes by Washington Hjelm, (credited author of 'The Lost City of Atlantis: will she ever be found and do we necessarily wish to find her?') Chairperson of the World Ethics Committee.' _

Quite a post considering his humble upbringing in the backwoods of the Greenland Archipelago. History teacher to international lecturer and adviser to the World Council at Oslo in twenty years.

He's finishing the final corrections of his work, preparing to send out his notes by 20.00, which should give each one of the Committee's representatives, an ample twenty-four hours to read and peruse them before the next meeting. Twenty members and he holds the casting vote. And if it's still ten against ten, after the week's adjournment to reconsider, which way will he vote?

He returns his gaze to the sea. The sun, a brilliant red crimson, slashed with purple cloud, now begins its evening slip below the horizon.

He allows his mind to wander once more over his own personal history, his academic life, his milestones of achievements and disappointments, reflecting how the world itself has progressed too over the past ten thousand years.

How different things must have been back then, when events had all but obliterated the seasons and the Earth stood blighted, with humans surviving as best they could. It still seems to Washington incredible that recovered and restored records show that at the time of the Wraith Attack, Earth claimed to provide life for six billion souls. How many died back then? How many indeed?

It is now 8014 NC. Population censuses indicate an optimum level of 300 million. Any more than 500 million and virgin lands would have to fall under cultivation. How did the world once manage to provide for itself? The same records also show that they did not. At least, not to an acceptable level.

NC, New Count is, he muses, no longer so very new, introduced, as far as anyone could tell, after a gap of approximately two thousand years after the Wraith Attack. Those who suffered that fate said it occurred in 2012. That such a calamity had been predicted by an ancient race called the Mayans, five thousand years prior to that.

Humans, however, thinks Washington are always exceptional in their ability to survive. The Wraith Attack had been closely followed by a shift in the earth's axis that had meant a major realignment of the North Pole into Russia and the South Pole to the mid-Pacific. The shift had led to intense volcanic activity and massive earthquakes, throwing up new mountain ranges, re-locating the old, raising tectonic plates, sinking others into oblivion under the sea. The accumulation of volcanic ash, a smog of hundreds of years, produced a mini ice-age. The subsequent smog dispersal had led to a warming up that had, in turn led to a rise in sea levels. Washington knows that the maps of old were quite different to those of today. It was a miracle that humans came through it all as well as they did.

Washington finally surrenders to his headache, to the inability to concentrate further, and admitting he can polish his notes no further, he presses 'submit'. He levers himself from his chair and walks over to the window, taking in the last of the sunset, his mind skimming over years of lectures on anthropology and archaeology given to student halls the world over. He has memories of young faces, perhaps not all eager for this knowledge, and yes, he has to concede that some would have been bored. He remembers going through similar experiences. There is little new about growing up. But all students know and celebrate the story behind Atlantis Day, their time of thanksgiving for victory over the Wraith.

The room behind him has darkened and he returns to his desk, reaching for the room controls. He sets the lighting to 'dim'. Anything higher will flare up his headache for sure. He bypasses his bookcase and randomly selects one volume, taking it to the window. Martya hates his books. They simply collect dust, she says, frowning. Why can't he be more like other of her former employers and rely on nothing but data compilers and data rings that feedback effortlessly to the holo, with scarcely a flicker of power resources used? But no, his preference is for books, with that natural, personal link between reader and writer. And besides, and he acknowledges some vanity here, he likes to show off his vast and impressive array of titles that include some of the world's rarest items, permanently stored behind glass and sealed in a temperature controlled vacuum – books dating right back to around 2000AD.

He thumbs through pages of an 'Introduction to World History'.

Humans had been thrown literally to the four corners of the world.

Five states.

Newfoundland. Consisting of the islands of North Canada, (revealed once the ice had receded) Alaska, Iceland and the archipelago of Greenland, with jurisdiction over what had once been the American continent. The State had been highly populated in those early days having taken in so many refugees. What few people had survived the initial intensive onslaught of the Wraith in what had been The United States, had then the misfortune of finding themselves, due to the prevailing wind direction, in the path of toxins and contaminants as Wraith ship after Wraith ship (and regretfully many Earth planes carrying nuclear weapons) had been blasted from the sky. And Central America, being in such close proximity to the South Pole, is now lost under an ice sheet. South America is as barren as the North, with a few nomadic tribes wandering across inhospitable tundra and grasslands.

The State of Eurasia. Formed, basically, from what had once been Scandinavia and parts of Western Russia. Very little had survived of European Nations and even to this day, the area has not been declared safe to enter.

The peoples of Africa with its former heavy dependence on 'Western Countries' had finally been decimated by a more virulent form of Aids, and during the unification of the world peoples had fallen under the guardianship of the small State of Arabia. Much of Africa's western seaboard is now submerged beneath the sea. Nonetheless, with the Equator now running from what was once it's north-west to south-east, it is still a bountiful land of tropical rainforest and lush savannahs.

The Wraith had fed well in Asia. Their principle food target. It had been mainly their populations that died in the Wraith ships. Little was left. Leaving only Australia, enlarged with the addition of the Indonesian Mountains, the highest mountain ranges on Earth, standing alone in that section of the globe, seeing to the isolated pacific islands.

Perth had been the last known resting place of Atlantis.

And finally, New Antarctica. Once a desolate rocky territory that had evolved and blossomed into what could only be described as Utopia, blessed with fertile soils and a temperate climate. Mass migration took place to its shores around 4000 NC, making it now the most productive farm state of the five.

Washington leans a shoulder against a window column, staring into a landscape of shadows and dark greying shapes that edge the black brown flatness of a calm sea, touched here and there by the last orange shimmer of light that clings to the sky.

So much hope… so much hope for the future… surely it wasn't to be dashed again? Not after all this time? But he, more than anyone he supposes, knows and understands the cycles of human history.

NC. New Count. Archaeological digs indicated that there had been once an AD or a BC. Though the world then had been so fragmented into so many nations, religions, etc, that this was not a universal application. anno Domini. But which God? Perhaps then, a Guardian Angel? For how could so few survive, not only to survive but to recover and become technologically advanced once more, _and_ without making the same ecological mistakes as their ancestors? Perhaps the Wraith had presented mankind with something of a favour, reflects Washington, and Earth had come through a sort of baptism. Certainly since that war there had been no other...

Illogically, at unification into one World nation, the Justinian calendar of twelve months of variable lengths had been accepted. Now there were thirteen months in a year based on the moon's cycle and somehow the names of the months had been retained, English being adopted as the universal language of most survivors. And it seemed fitting, in memory of the legend, to call the new month, Atlantea.

Even though, until the great archaeological digs of circa 7000 NC, that's all it ever was… a legend. Many had even doubted its existence. Others said it'd been Atlantis that had been the Guardian Angel…

Irrefutable proof came when archaeologists discovered Cheyenne Mountain, the place of all the legends.

The State of Newfoundland had initiated the first great archaeological digs though some work had already been carried out along the coasts of Southern Canada, as early as 5963NC. Historical interest was naturally thrown to the former United States with all the hearsay of the great seaboard cities on both the Pacific and the Atlantic, the ruins of which had been revealed during the Big Freeze of 5200-6000 when the Central American icecap had doubled in size and sea levels had dropped. It seemed unbelievable to see yet again, the footprints of such cities as New York and Boston. Los Angeles and San Francisco had never been found, lost forever in early earthquakes.

Work and studies inland had been brought to a halt when radiation was still found to be at dangerous levels but with the passing of years and further radiation depletion, and with the production of good suits for men on the ground, the investigations continued.

It met with much initial discouragement. Little remained of towns and cities. Stories passed down and told round family fires or in community centres had it that the Wraith used some sort of stun weapon, that for the want of a better word, simply 'blew' everything away in its path. Occasionally something underground was discovered. And Washington remembers childhood visits to Greenland Museum in Nuuk, that displayed fragments of rusty automobiles found in what were once storage areas called garages.

Dust. They found a lot of dust too.

Forensic Labs later revealed their grisly findings – much of the dust was all that was left of humans. Perhaps these underground halls had been shelters of some sort? Odd fragments of metal and plastic from clothing were also found and, even more rarely than ever, buttons and hooks much resembling those used in the present day. Rings and loops and chains too. All personal ornaments. Even rudimentary personal communication systems, with manufacturers' names still decipherable.

Then came the fortuitous find of a small government depository in what had once been the city of Washington. Other larger depositories had been uncovered elsewhere but proved to be empty, their contents falling victim to the ravages of time. Fallen debris had sealed this particular depository's entrance and, deprived of air and its destructive capacity towards all things carbon, its 'treasures' of recorded discs and even paper files had survived intact, as if… the last human being had just that instant turned the key and left for a cup of kokoda...

The revelations disclosed from the depository were breathtaking in their significance and magnitude. There just weren't enough academia and archaeologists alive to sift through the material. Everything verified all the stories. The world was sent in a frenzy of excitement as detail after detail of legends revealed itself as actuality. It really did all happen as the stories had told. Earth's last defences. Its airfields. Numbers of planes. Casualties... generals. Staff... names behind the legends... General Jack O'Neill, John Sheppard, Cameron Mitchell, Dr Rodney McKay, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson, Teal'c, Ronon Dex, Vala Mal Doran, Teyla Emmagan

And more importantly of all, came the discovery of the exact location of Cheyenne Mountain.

Barely a month passed and the search revealed the base, barely hidden beneath the surface, miraculously untouched despite the earthquakes of minus1000NC that had hit the area.

Soon, the archaeologists were in possession of the last known sighting of Atlantis but sadly, not its present day situation.

That had been May 7802 NC.

The World Ethics Committee sat its first meeting regarding the findings of Cheyenne Mountain ten years later following the work of Dr. P. Sokofsky, from the State of Eurasia, investigating the possibility of cloning humans from recovered DNA. It'd been just over two hundred years debating the issue. Not to be taken lightly then?

The Ethics Committee, caught up in the universal euphoria of the new discoveries, had immediately granted permission to use DNA from archaeological digs, failing, despite its title, to consider the ethics involved. The scientists were given a carte blanche to do whatever.

One clone was successfully created from DNA retrieved from an Australian airfield, only to be placed into cold store, before even being 'awakened'. There were second thoughts. A new spiritual movement had gripped the world, and questions were raised as to the propriety of cloning. Could it be regarded as an intrusion into an individual's soul?

Counter-arguments were thrown back and forth.

Nothing could be proved about the soul of a clone – or of anyone for that matter. And the clone had been created now. The damage done, surely? It was known that another clone had once walked the Earth, a Dr Carson Beckett, and his case demonstrated very little evidence of anything beyond the physical effects of the cloning.

Soul or not, was it worth the risk, simply to satiate a desire to get a few historical facts straight?

_Because we can?_

Feelings ran so high that the lab containing the clone was destroyed by protesters. The production of another clone was given permission but the resulting clone was again frozen. The dizzying arguments continued to surface sporadically through the decades. But gradually, they and the clone were forgotten.

Till now.

The discoveries at Cheyenne Mountain had not only substantiated the details of Earth's fight against the Wraith but had uncovered much about the Wraith themselves. Their coding systems, for one.

The shock revelation of December 8013?

Those exact same signalling patterns, faint, but there all the same, picked up by the new high level reconnaissance balloons that orbit the Earth.

There were Wraith survivors too? And they'd left Pegasus once more? They were now in the Milky Way and heading towards Earth?

Earth needs to find Atlantis.

And quickly.

With no wars, the weapon industry is practically non-existent. Earth, lulled into a sense of false security by centuries of peace, is defenceless. Weapon production programmes are in frantic progress but the World Council is the first to admit to its immediate inadequacy. And no one has any estimation of the timescale involved. If the Wraith come tomorrow, then… they were looking at defeat. Then... the past ten thousand years will have been for for nothing.

They'd been other spaceships ten thousand years ago… Asgard and Ancient technology. The Orion and Daedalus, but both had eventually succumbed to the alien onslaught. Hope rests on Atlantis. Hope rests on this clone. And really, thinks Washington, shaking his head, that's too much dependency on one man.

Washington is certain that activating the clone is no longer a case of mild curiosity. He is certain that _not_ activating can no longer be justified on grounds of mere squeamishness. They no longer have that luxury.

The clone could help them to find Atlantis. And perhaps the second clone too, if its growth could be accelerated. And the geneticists had assured him that this would not be a problem.

Washington knows how he would cast the deciding vote if it ever came to it. He is aware that he might be clutching at straws in desperation but the safety of Earth is at stake. And he has looked into the background of the clone's 'original', has studied it's military background and it's life accomplishments. It's deeds, it's actions are most creditworthy. He is, therefore, convinced the clone itself would want it this way.

Itself? Himself? And Washington frowns at his own confusion.

He stabs at another button on his house controls and watches the window blinds slowly lower to shut out the black night.

-oAo-

"_How is he?"_

"_Coming along nicely."_

"_Hmmm... a hero and sateon…"_

"_In his day, it was called 'hot'."_

"_Oh, that word works too, I'm sure. Can he, you know...?"_

"_Oh yes, he's fully functional. Sperm samples have already been taken but put into cold store."_

"_Ethics Committee, huh?"_

"_Yeah, we're not allowed to use them, until forms have been filed in triplicate and the EC have had about twenty deliberations." _

"_Won't stop one of us trying to bear his children, now, will it?"_

"_Apparently, in all instances, his permission has to be asked first."_

-oAo-

Where?

Take it easy, John.

Where?

Calm down, you're among friends.

Friends? The Others?

The Others were in the light.

This.

This is different. This plain doesn't feel right.

-oAo-


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

He opens his eyes.

Where...?

And he's done this before and there had been others in the room. Soft voices and white uniforms. But they're not here now. The smell of... a hospital? A clinic? The room is white. A hygienic sort of white that would fit in with a clinic. A whiteness that puts him in the mind of that Ancient ship, the Aurora.

And the light is white that comes from glass tubes where the walls meet the ceiling.

He looks round and down, blinking hard against the white light. Aware now he's naked and his hands automatically go to cover himself.

The bed is large. Has to be an emperor. Like some penthouse hotel. But that's all there is. No other furnishings. Hell, there isn't even a sheet. Though... the room is warm.

But…

But he doesn't remember how he got here. His last memory. Fighting Wraith. Waiting on the airfield. But... he doesn't remember how he got here.

And that's gotta be more unnerving than being naked. _A little._

He lays there. Not moving. Though some instinct tells him to check for cameras. He spots the black lens in the ceiling corner. Affirmative then. He sighs, rolls over and sits, putting his feet down on to nice comfy carpet. He shouldn't see why he should provide them, whoever 'they' are, with a free peep show. He wriggles his toes into the carpet's fleece. This clinic, if it _is_ a clinic, has got to be seriously expensive. He can't believe the military would dig into their pockets for something this fancy. He hopes he hasn't finally snapped and it's his brother picking up the tab. Unless… if... perhaps he's been kidnapped for his gene by some millionaire, by another Henry Wallace.

None of this… none of this fits in with fighting the Wraith. Hell, there's gotta be a whole heap of missing links to get from… _then_ to now… He shakes his head, as if that would loosen some memory. He just doesn't remember _anything_.

A flicker of a brief recall. Of light. That makes him frown. That makes even less sense.

Well, at least, they must have won the war…

He sees marks in the carpet's deep pile. The tracks of small wheels. Definitely where medical equipment was once... yet... he quickly scans over his limbs and torso. No wounds. But he fingers at something resembling a band aid on his left wrist that hardly conceals the large bruise there.

He's not entirely naked then but... it's a sign he's not long been off life support? The thought gives his stomach a lurch. His throat is sore and parched enough. He's damn tired enough. And there are faint pinholes and other bruises at his elbow where bloods have been taken. Or… he's been drugged to keep him under.

His skin seems pale. He's certain he's thinner. He's certain he's weaker. Like… if he were to make a run for it now, he wouldn't even make it past the door. So perhaps he's been ill then. Picked up some alien virus that's left him with amnesia but he hasn't even a headache. Just that fuzziness that comes from sleeping too long... though... he'd woken a few times...

He combs a hand through his hair, passing it across the nape of his neck. His arm... heck, his whole body feels tired and weighted. But he's got to sort this through. With that camera on him, he guesses there's no point trying a door. It gonna be locked. There are two doors, he's noticed. One is smaller than the other and is probably the bathroom. He could do with that. He could do with something to drink too. But for the moment he's loathe to move. He aims to be ready, for whoever comes through that main door eventually. And besides, there's probably a second camera in the bathroom too and, he thinks with a grimace, he's no intention of presenting himself for another show just yet.

He turns to take in the window behind him. The blinds are drawn. He sees sunshine leaking at the edges. No sign of any bars. But that doesn't mean there isn't something like a force field or laser beams or some sort of alarm system to prevent escape. He shakes his head again. He's getting too damn cynical. He could actually be here for his health, for his own good.

His mind throws up again, the last thing he _does_ remember. Talking to O'Neill on a sun white airstrip, waiting for the ready sign for his F-302. Chewing gum. Which is the only weird thing. He never chews gum. The gum had been laced with something? Or they got blasted by some new weapon? Because he remembers... did he hit the concrete? Is that how it happened? It must have been a weapon. He got cold. Very cold. He couldn't move. It felt like… and he can't quite figure this out. A shake of his head again, trying to focus his thoughts, failing, because…

_That light…_

Strange things have happened since he joined Stargate Command. That he's had to explain in mission reports in standard military lingo. And he can't always find the right words. This has got to be one of those times. There's an emotion there. Sorrow. A sensation. Torn out. Ripped out. Somehow conscious but… he's sure he wasn't… _actually_ _breathing_. And then everything faded. Though to put a timescale on that?

And then... he remembers the light.

A different light to this room's. A light that... is… that… surrounds him…wraps round him like… _comfort_… like when Chaya shared with him but… so too is it… safe, secure, like a candle mom brings when the power is out… that he misses – hell, but he's a soldier… suck it up, John. What the hell have they given him? Some kinda mind control drug?

He frowns as the feeling returns, washing over him. He wants to get back to the light because... but he can't remember... can't remember why he should want to get back to the light. Perhaps he's been captured by the Wraith? Perhaps this is a new sort of torture? Perhaps they've tried to wipe his mind clean of Atlantis and it's Atlantis that he wants to get back to?

Perhaps he's asking the wrong guy the questions.

"Ok..." and his voice croaks. He coughs, clearing his throat. "Someone mind telling me what's going on?" he asks of the camera.

-oAo-

"_Our cue. Tell Andro he's awake. And we'd better find him some clothes."_

"_On it."_

-oAo-

The door slides open automatically so he probably couldn't have opened it if he'd wanted to. There might have been a code he'd have to crack first.

And they're human. Well, they _look_ human…

And they're not armed. He has time for a quick glimpse of a corridor beyond as the door swishes shut behind them. They'd been no obvious signs of guards outside. And he doesn't hear a lock mechanism working. None of this means anything though. He could still be a prisoner.

He remains sitting on the bed. Hands loose over his lap. Still covering up. Wary, tense and nervous, though trying not to show it. Which isn't easy when he's naked and feeling vulnerable as hell.

There's three of them. In something like white scrubs. A man and two women. All thirtyish. All pleasant enough looking. Nothing intimidating. One woman holds what looks like clothing. She even smiles at him in a nurse sort of way. It could still be a trick to catch him unawares.

But there's one good thing that's coming across here. There's no threat of Wraith. There's no fear here. Where ever he is, for whatever reason, the Wraith have long gone. Then, they've won. He could go through a lot if he knew that for certain.

Or... he's hallucinating. Or... these are Wraith worshippers? It seems unlikely. He could easily put them down for Ancients. Everything seems so... perfect. Pristine. White. Perhaps he's ascended? Perhaps this is how it is? No. That's like… _light_... like... back _there_… and the thought evaporates, forgotten, as one of the women speaks.

"John," says one of the women, "I'm Technician Carter Kjeldsen." He raises an eyebrow at that. Carter? Technician? And they know his name. He guesses they have his dog tags.

"This is Technician Siom Bonde," she adds, indicating with a hand to the other female holding the clothes.

It's all smiles, that he's polite enough to return. They sound like Scandinavian names. Then he's still on Earth? They speak good English with scarcely a trace of any accent though.

"This is Mental Capacitor, Andro Osterholt."

Ok, he just has to ask…

"Mental capacitor?"

"Your equivalent of a psychiatrist."

Oh, and he nods knowingly. Shit. Not Earth. Or shit... he's gone through to the future again. Or shit, they're Replicators. Or they really _are_ Ancients.

He's been asking for answers, and he's got even more questions.

"A shrink? My equivalent? Where am I?" He demands. His head is still racing with all the possibilities. It just won't slow down an instant. A shrink? Then this has got to be a mental institution. He'd run riot somewhere? Killed people? Or... broke down. Jeez, why couldn't he remember?

"You should get dressed. Then we'll be happy to answer any queries you may have." And Kjeldsen, a short-cropped blonde like her namesake, indicates to Bonde to offer him the clothes – that come complete with a hint of a smirk in pale blue eyes. And there's a hint too of... what?... Awe? Awe in their manner. Like he's a visiting dignitary or something. Or a military bigwig on an inspection. Even though he's naked. Perhaps because he _is _naked...

He takes the clothes and places them on the bed beside him and standing, he quickly turns his back to the other three. He has no choice to do this any different. There's no screen and it'd all be too obvious if he darts into the bathroom that he's bothered by his nudity when they're clearly not. He wants to play this cool and not show he's freaked out by any of this. He's guesses they've seen it all when he was asleep anyhow.

He shakes out the clothing. More of the white scrubs that they're wearing, and slips on the pants, tying up the cord at the waist gratefully, reaching for the top.

"We apologise that you had nothing to wear. But we had to be ready for a medical emergency," explains Bonde.

"You were expecting one?" his voice is muffled as he pulls the top over his head. It smells medical like the room. "What is this place?"

"The Axelsen Institute."

It means nothing to him. But much like having a psychiatrist come pay him a visit, the word 'institute' has an ominous ring to it. He turns and supposes he should sit again. A panel section suddenly pushes itself out of the wall, revealing two white comfy armchairs that the shrink guy and Bonde pull over. Kjeldsen settles herself beside him on the bed, elegantly crossing her legs. It's all very cosy. At least, they don't look like they're going to do the bad cop, good cop routine.

"So, this Axelsen Institute, where is it then?" He tries to sound calm, like waking up in a strange place is a regular normal occurrence for him. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, clasping his fingers, trying to still the way they want to fidget… wishing they weren't so clammy… The position also gives him a limited degree of space from Kjeldsen. He studies the carpet. He hates this close proximity. He still doesn't know if he can trust these guys.

"Sisimiut. Greenland. The centre of government research," Kjeldsen informs him.

"Earth? I thought..." he trails off, looking up at all three of them in turn as he takes this in.

Earth, after all. He tries to scratch round for general knowledge. What he remembers of his world geography. Greenland? A sort of out of the way place for a centre of government research, he thinks. And what military agreement had been sifted out, for him to end up in the hands of the... Danish? This was still Stargate Command? He didn't recollect any Danes being on the programme.

"Well, your government's throwing a lot of money into this research of yours," he says, surprised he can keep his voice to a drawl, when he's trying to ignore the knot that's been growing in the pit of his stomach – he'd better not be at the centre of any research they've got planned.

"Money? Oh yes… money," says the Osterholt guy, speaking for the first time. John throws him an odd look but carries on with what he's got to say, all the same.

"Like I asked earlier, mind telling me what's going on? Why am I here? Why can't I remember how I got here? Did the Wraith use some sort of new weapon? The last thing I remember is…"

"What?" asks Osterholt. And Osterholt is intense. He has eyes that are so intense it's like he's trying to read your mind, and John, directly facing him, feels even more uneasy, but then, he's not exactly had the best relationship with shrinks. Ever.

"What was the last thing you remember?" persists Osterholt.

"Look, I…" he glances from one to the other. He guesses they have clearance. This is government. This is official. They've given him names but aren't carrying any obvious IDs. What if this is all show? What if they're lying? He probably needs to make some phone calls before he says anything, but he isn't even certain how much freedom he has here.

"It's ok. You can tell us," tries Kjeldsen, soothing, placating, placing a hand on his thigh. It has the opposite effect and makes him tenser than ever. He nearly wants to pull away.

"I think you've got to tell _me_ a whole load of stuff first. What's going on? Are my team ok?"

_Am I… are they being... researched?_

And suddenly, at the thought of his team, he's in a full blown panic, springing to his feet way too quickly for equilibrium. He quickly fights against the way the room sways, shooting out yet more questions as he paces around room. "What's happened? Why have I been brought here? I'm part of some sort of medical research?" He turns on them. "What the hell? I'm supposed to be fighting the Wraith. I'm needed..." So much for keeping calm. He guesses he's shown them confusion, ok – that ought to keep the mental capacitor happy for weeks. He bites his lip, but not for that reason. He's mentioned Wraith. And that might have been too much info to let out.

"You remember fighting the Wraith then? Nothing else? What exactly is the last thing you remember?" asks Kjeldsen.

He starts. They know about Wraith? It's in her tone. She doesn't show surprise. She doesn't even bat an eyelid. Neither do the other two. It's nearly like they're expecting him to react this way. They know he's been fighting Wraith? Or they're being very clever in fishing for detail. Yeah, he's confused, ok.

Osterholt is studying him hard. Waiting for him to talk. Probably making rough notes in his head for some thesis about loopy Colonels.

"Please. We are only trying to help you." Osterholt sounds so damn sincere.

John goes to the window. None of them seem bothered by the move. By the fact, he might be poised to make a break for it. Perhaps they know his legs can hardly even get him to any one of the four walls of the room. His little outburst hasn't helped none. He's shaking badly. He lifts one slat of the blinds to peer out but the brightness of the sunlight outside blinds him…_ light_… and he immediately lets it fall. He faces the other three. He's got to start trusting them. And nothing he's going to say is exactly highly confidential. He needn't even mention Atlantis. And he has to go over this again for his own sake. To try and get things straight in his own head.

"I was due to take off. Recon. We were mopping up stragglers."

Occasionally, they'd open up a whole group of the Wraith in hiding and yet another battle would follow. It seemed like they just couldn't be put down. But every damn Wraith had to be killed. No, not revenge. Well, some of that mixed in there somewhere. Not one single solitary Wraith could be allowed to make it back to Pegasus and alert others of Earth's location.

"The F-302 showed up a mechanical defect."

They hadn't had a run of good luck lately. Atlantis was also temporarily de-commissioned. McKay was working on her, just offshore of Perth. That's why John was flying jets. He just couldn't be out of the fight for long.

"Had to hold off. I waited on the airstrip for it to be fixed."

A temporary affair somewhere in the Australian outback. Area 64. So temporary, it hadn't even earned itself a proper name. There wasn't a single base left in one piece back home.

"I hadn't eaten for hours but I didn't want to get to the mess hall and then go and miss my weather window."

They'd forecast torrential storms just north of Darwin where he was heading.

"An engineer gave me gum that I usually just _don't_ eat. It's banned, anyhow… Along comes General O'Neill. I tried swallowing it and started choking. He patted me on the back and said he'll overlook the misdemeanour this time. It was his joke. I'm virtually last man standing. One of the last… We'd just lost Cameron Mitchell. I threw the gum to one side. That's it."

_And then there was this light. _

"I don't know whether I made it to the plane. I'm assuming I didn't since I don't remember. But you guys… you're ok… we must have won the war somehow… or… if not… I should get back there, fighting again…"

Not be here, getting _researched_.

"What of Atlantis? What are your last memories of Atlantis?" asks Osterholt.

He grimaces. He's not ready to tell them anything about Atlantis. But the truth can't hurt. It doesn't amount to much. He needn't say where Atlantis is. He could do a trade. The more he tells them, the more they'll tell him. Little by little.

"McKay was fixing her. Still is for all I know."

"Sit, John." He looks down to where Kjeldsen is patting the bed.

"What happened to me? Did I get a bad knock on the head or something? Did the Wraith do something to me? I didn't convert to an Iratus bug, did I?" And he slumps onto the nearest corner of the bed. Not because Kjeldsen asked. He's already been eying it up as a good place to collapse. He guesses he looks pathetic as he stares miserably at the bathroom door.

"John... there is no Wraith to fight," says Bonde. "At least…" she doesn't finish.

He looks over to her. "You saying I _imagined_ it?"

"No. There was once. A long time ago. A _very_ long time ago," says Kjeldsen gently.

"Then I've gone forward in time again." It's a statement. He as good as knows it now. It's the only explanation to all of this. It's like the last time… McKay telling him the stories of how everyone had died… and already the grief... the grief is flooding over him... and like the last time, he pushes it away...

"No. You haven't travelled in time. Not in a manner of speaking."

"Then how?" he chokes out, turning his face towards the window. Osterholt is watching him too damn closely.

"John, the date is 8014 since records began. And those records began after a two thousand year gap. That's an approximation. No one is certain exactly. This is ten thousand years after your time on earth."

"But you said I wasn't in… the future," he says hoarsely, looking at them again.

"Technically you're not. You're exactly where you're supposed you be. You remember Dr. Carson Beckett?"

Suddenly, the puzzle falls into place.

"Shit! I'm a clone. Don't tell me I'm a freaking clone!" And he stands again, finding energy in the anger in him. He's pacing the room again, hands on hips.

"Why? Why did you do this? They'd better be a good reason!" He doesn't know why he's so pissed off with this. He just is. Osterholt's going to have a field day explaining these mood changes but he just doesn't care. "Have you cloned others? My team? Or just me?" Not that it makes any real difference. He stops in his tracks, the strength to yell at them draining as instantly as it came. Exhausted, he leans a shoulder against the nearest wall. He can't understand it. Can't understand why he's going to pieces, why he's losing it over this.

"Yes, John... you're a clone. We've manufactured you from your DNA discovered at Area 64," says Kjeldsen.

Manufactured. Yes. That's it. Manufactured is the reason why he feels so fucked up. They're not nurses. He's a clone. Clones get looked at by freaking _technicians_. He might as well be… what… a robot? AI? Frankenstein? He's met his team's replicator selves. And they'd said they felt weird too. Weird doesn't come close. He doesn't feel… _real_. He doesn't belong here... not human... not human...

_The light._

"We made only the two," he hears Bonde say, defensively.

And Kjeldsen stands now and comes to his side. She touches his arm. He knows she's trying to calm him down. Her touch. Her words. He allows it, unclenching his fists, relaxing his shoulders a fraction more. He could never keep this anger up forever. What would be the point?

"John, your other self, helped to successfully defeat the Wraith. He was… you were very brave. The only reason why we are sitting here today is because of that. In the end, it was virtually single handed. You, and a handful of others… with Atlantis."

He straightens up and faces them again. He's still breathing heavily. But there's nothing he can do to change any of this. He's simmered down, resolved already that he just has to make the best of it. He nods at Kjeldsen, who backs off with the acknowledgement that he's ok now.

"Who's the other one?" he asks huskily, stumbling slightly as he grabs for the bed to sit again, pushing off concerned offers of help from Bonde and Osterholt, who are now both on their feet.

"You know of him. But you weren't close? Daniel Jackson. From DNA found at Cheyenne Mountain. We were unable to find sufficient DNA for any of the others," says Osterholt.

"Right." Daniel Jackson. And not his any of his team. Jackson was ok, but he can't help feeling deep down disappointed. He coughs. He still can't trust his voice. "Why? Why did you do this?"

"It's not something we undertook lightly," says Osterholt, continuing the story. " Ethically, cloning for us is as much a conundrum as it was in your day. You've been on ice, in cryonics for the last 202 years. This technology has been available to us in all that time but we held back from using it, because of certain... issues. Not least how a human being could cope with the passing of so many years or the degree of… awareness that would be carried over to the clone. You have certainly both surprised us by how much you seem to be..."

"What?" he presses sharply.

"Well, _normal_," shrugs Osterholt. "Of course, we never knew you. We knew _of_ you, but didn't know you. But to all intents and purposes, you seem-"

"Normal?" That was the best a capacitor could come up with?

"Though you'll receive help to adjust," Osterholt hastens to add. "What you're about to go through is the equivalent of grief, shock-"

"You think? You seem pretty sure of that." John is being a bitch, he knows. He's going to live with this but he isn't going to let them off the hook that easily. And never a shrink guy. Never.

"You haven't said what changed your minds." He looks from one to the other.

"We believe the Wraith are about to make a comeback," explains Osterholt. "We've picked up Wraith signals. We are peaceful people. In all the ten thousand years, we haven't experienced any wars. All the World's nations were united early on with one goal in mind – to simply survive. We thought the Wraith were defeated. We have certainly never ever considered the possibility of an alien attack. We find ourselves without significant weapons. We need to find Atlantis..." trails off Osterholt lamely.

Something stirs. Something old in himself. That responds to urgency. Yeah, something 'normal'. This is familiar territory. This he can handle. Though he hates to think that Earth could be screwed up again.

"Atlantis is lost?" Strange how in most of her history, she has been lost.

"Following one last battle off the coast of Australia, Atlantis took shelter at Perth for much needed maintenance. This is the last piece of information we have as to her last known resting place. We had hoped you would remember her ultimate fate and then perhaps we could retrieve her. But it appears your memory does not go that far forward. We know of the air sorties from Area 64 following the death of Cameron Mitchell that you participated in. We have discovered a partial duty rota that shows that you returned to Atlantis soon after. The briefest of references. Beyond that... nothing. It's as if she, and her crew, disappeared from the face of the Earth. Perhaps she did. Daniel Jackson has no re-call either. We have scanned all the ocean floors searching for her but it has proven a fruitless labour. There has been much seismic activity over the centuries. She may well be buried beneath miles of debris, damaged beyond repair."

"You mentioned Cheyenne Mountain. The Stargate is still there? If she's still intact, you could access her that way."

"The Stargate is just about useless to us," carries on Kjeldsen. "It seems that the Gate was ATA gene locked to prevent any access from Wraith and unfortunately, with the passage of time, the ATA gene on Earth has all but died out. We're in the process of developing an inoculation but…"

"You want me to help with that?"

"We've already taken samples of your bloods to start the programme, regretfully, without your permission," admits Osterholt.

"You have it now."

All three seem relieved to hear it.

"Any idea when do you expect the Wraith to arrive?" He quizzes them.

"No," admits Kjeldsen. And they fall silent. Bonde looks down to the carpet. "It could be tomorrow," adds Kjeldsen eventually. "Next week. Next year. We have no way of knowing."

He feels for them. He knows what it's like to be in this situation.

"The inoculations may take time to develop. We might not find suitable candidates. Even in your time, the success rate was only forty per cent. You don't have to agree to come to our assistance…" says Kjeldsen, her voice fading, "but..."

"You need me at the Gate," he finishes, "And then, if we find Atlantis, you need me to bring her home."

-oAo-


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Daniel walks into the room. He's wearing scrubs too. And something that looks like glasses. Optics they call them.

John is at the window. There's a view of gardens sloping down to a low shoreline. A sea whiplashes rock with white spray. He stands caught in a mote dancing beam of morning sunshine. He turns back to the room blinded, holding up a hand to shield his eyes, even though the window glass has been darkened for him. His eyes are weak from too long in the cryonics they've told him so he can't stand bright light. They say that drugs and surgery and dark optics will correct that. He tells them they mean shades. They're amused by his language. His words.

Their language is unrecognizable after ten thousand years. Those who have been appointed as 'carers' of John and Daniel have been taught English from the twenty-first century. But they don't always get things right. They're eager to learn, however.

But he has no words, language to describe this... this sense of… not belonging. This isn't an alien world as such but it sure feels like one.

The gardens and clumps of trees, lawns and footpaths beneath the window beckon, however. He longs to take a run. But he knows he's weak. His body would fail him. He has to rest, they say. Partly due to his eyes. Partly as his bloods aren't right. But they won't say why exactly. He longs to be let free. And that feeling isn't so alien.

The bed has been pushed behind more panelling. The comfy chairs are left out, and a low table takes the place of the bed. Andro Osterholt places a tray on the table with something looking like pitta rolls and a salad of green leaves and orange peppers, with juice and an apple. That would be for Daniel. He's been 'activated' for two weeks now. There were problems with John's activation that they're not telling. John's meal, until his stomach gets accustomed to solid food is something that looks like houmous.

The capacitor glances from one to the other, studying them both. He has spoken to them individually in sessions that afternoon. He knows that it is John who is the most uncomfortable with this. Not meeting Daniel - but being in this situation. Osterholt says he should expect to be homesick. Right. Expect to miss his associates. Associates? He's not sure if that's shrink talk or Osterholt has lost something in translation.

John thinks he should do better than this. He has a job to do. A purpose. McKay had once said John was like his cat. Toss him from two storeys up and the tom would land on all fours, land on his feet as if nothing had happened. Adapt. Accept it all. Once he'd wandered Atlantis alone, pitched into the future seven hundred years. It should have prepared him for this. But it hasn't. As he attempts to take in the scenery and watch the way the sunlight sparkles off the sea, it reminds him... of... _light._ That sense again, that he should be someplace else. Yeah, perhaps it is Atlantis and his time. _Time sick._ Yeah. He tells himself to suck this up. But he's sure he can't get the look out of his eyes as he moves away from the window to take Daniel's offered hand.

"Jackson."

"Colonel. Though under the circumstances it should be Daniel, don't you think?" The guy hesitates. "Colonel," he repeats, uncertain that John has understood.

"Yeah. And it's… John."

"Yeah." Daniel pats him on the arm, as they let go hands. The anthropologist would like to smile. Hey, any friendly face in a storm. He tries it, but he's still unsure. He can see the melancholy in the other man's face. And he's been told John's not happy, not happy about being a clone of his long dead self.

Daniel has decided not to dwell on it.

"Well…" and he places his hands behind his back, rocks on his heels and blows out a breath, half relieved they've broken the ice, sort of, and wondering what's the next thing to be said in these situations. Obviously, there's no handbook.

"Well, this is weird, huh? It's been six months since I saw you last and yet-"

"It's been ten thousand years, yeah."

"I'll leave you two to get better acquainted. Don't forget your pills, John," says the capacitor starting to leave, stooping to rattle a small container on the tray by way of reminder.

Daniel sits at the laid table and attacks the food immediately.

"You know," he says, speaking between hungry mouthfuls, waving a knife in the air, "they don't eat meat. Don't even keep animals for eggs and milk and dairy products? Lost most domestic stock when the Wraith attacks got really bad and things never recovered." This is all interesting stuff for him. He's virtually learnt by heart 'The History of Earth: 2000 to the Present Day' by Washington Hjelm, and he's devouring every archaeological publication he can get his hands on as eagerly as he's eating his meal. He has access and the free run of Hjelm's data compilers and he loves it. Loves to spend time conversing with the old man, via the holo screens, asking him questions. The mental capacitor is pleased with his progress. He should have no difficulties settling in to his 'new' time on Earth.

Daniel breaks off from eating to look up, questioning John, who hasn't even sat down. Who'd like to shove his hands into the pockets his scrubs don't have. He's awkward with his arms and so sits, answering Daniel's unasked question.

"I don't seem to have an appetite."

Daniel nods slowly, understanding. John appreciates it but it feels irksome all the same. One shrink is enough.

Daniel resumes eating. "You know, if they're still feeding you baby food, I don't exactly blame you."

John picks up his bowl, examines its contents and jabs his spoon at what he thinks is a disgusting mess.

"Your pills..." prompts Daniel concerned.

"Yeah." John has forgotten already even though they're right in front of him. He wishes his brain would function better than this. His concentration is shot to pieces. He flickers a frown, thinking of the time he flew jets… flew Atlantis… how the hell is he ever going to get back to that?

He puts down the bowl and swallows all four pills in quick succession followed by swigs of water. He doesn't know what they're for. He rather suspects one might even be an antidepressant. Osterholt had said something… but John can't remember if he agreed or not.

"Another thing they don't do? A beer?" John could really do with one right now.

"Oh, they do some very acceptable equivalents," says Daniel. "They never lost that art. And whisky too. Don't tell Osterholt though that I've… imbibed! He'll have me sitting in a corner, writing lines – he'll certainly ground me." The mood has lightened up and Daniel carries on eating. A piece of relish sits on his chin that John feels the need to flick away.

"They tell me they cloned you from DNA found in gum... trapped, preserved like in amber in 'Jurassic Park'," says Daniel.

John points to his own chin to show Daniel that he needs to use his serviette. "You have er... a..."

"Oh. Oh, thanks. Yes. Gone now?"

"Yeah." John slowly begins to eat. The food, even in this liquid form feels like straw in his throat. "I didn't even eat gum. It was one off."

"Really?" And Daniel looks at him surprised. "Not that I disbelieve you or anything but..." and he pauses to drink, "the chances of you eating gum, _once._ Followed by the chances of these guys ever finding it? It was a temporary airstrip? No permanent buildings? And who would have thought gum would last so long? The odds of that? What?"

"No bookie would take it on," agrees John, with half a smile.

"Fate. You believe in Fate? Has to be Fate." And Daniel picks up a knife and his apple, attacking the peel.

"At least, you came from gum. Apparently I'd just thrown up in the nearest pot in the Artefacts Room. Picked up a stomach bug. Last thing_ I_ remember. We kept the room airtight, you see. Preservation. And somehow it managed to stay that way. The place was chosen to withstand earthquakes and nuclear blasts, after all."

"You... came from..." begins John, arching an eyebrow. Suddenly, he really was off his food.

"Yeah, vomit." And even Daniel puts down his apple, revolted. "Gum and vomit. And they look at us like we're heroes?"

-oAo-

Clothing hasn't changed much. Daniel says it's because the human form hasn't changed much either. So John is given pants to wear. Baggy and light like something out of Arabian Nights. But they're comfortable. And a vest like a tee, that fits close and snug. Everything is unisex... so, yeah, the vests look good on the females. He's noticed they wear nothing underneath but they're supported in all the right places.

He has a jacket too, with a round neck that fastens down the front with snaps. It's waterproof and breatheasy. It's cut fashionably, he's told, drawn in at the waist tight with flares at the back. The nurses smile. They giggle and say he looks good and it shows off his figure. They're respectful when they say it. The giggling starts outside in the corridor. He doesn't mind. It sort of lightens his mood. And does something for a guy's confidence.

He has no idea what the fabric is. It's grey and everyone at the Institute wears something similar. So it's a uniform? The shoes are like trainers but are slip-ons and padded. They're out of this world. Thermal to maintain a constant temperature. So soft, there's no need for socks. His feet were sort of X-rayed and then the shoes were _moulded_ to his feet. A perfect fit. Teyla would have loved these. A pang. He misses those guys.

It's a week before they believe he'll be strong enough for the journey to Cheyenne Mountain. They allow him short walks. And insist on afternoon naps. Which surprisingly he needs. As well as sixteen hours through the night.

He has to undergo a full physical every day. And every day, they seem to add another couple of bright coloured pills to his collection. He never asks why. Osterholt asks him why he never asks why. He shrugs. Osterholt puts it to him that he feels he has no right. They made him. They clothe and feed him. They own him. John shrugs again. Osterholt says he must learn to put those thoughts to one side. They are understandable but have 'no foundation in truth.' The people at the Institute simply wish him to make a speedy recovery. Osterholt says he should take more responsibility for his health. His body is his own. John says he'll show more interest but forgets.

Osterholt keeps asking about his dreams. It's private. He really doesn't want to say. He dreams of a light. And the Others. Waking, he doesn't know who the Others were. Just a sense... that confirms he doesn't belong here.

"I guess it represents my team,' he says, when encouraged to interpret his own dreams. He tells Osterholt what the guy wants to hear. It's the kind of bullshit he's always told shrinks in the past.

"Perhaps," says the capacitor, doubtfully. John isn't so worried anyhow. A dream is a dream.

And then the nightmares start.

He's surfed in his time. And this is a wave that takes him. White out. And then black out. And he's pulled and pulled into the dark foam and sand that churns and cuts and bruises his skin raw. He's aware of every inch of his body crying out at the pressure. He shouldn't be here. He's going to die here. He shouldn't be here dying... and it's happened before... and he wakes in a hot sweat and feels suffocated, yet... he's breathing... and it feels weird to breath.

Osterholt says it symbolises re-birth.

John pulls a face. That feels so wrong. It was death. Not birth. But just as a dream is nothing more than a dream, so is a nightmare, just a nightmare.

On day four, there are plans for Kjeldsen to take John is taken to see the sights of Sisimiut. It promises to be a good day out. Though really it's a 'trial run' organized by Osterholt to see how he handles meeting people before Cheyenne Mountain. John can see right through the move. But he acquiesces. Plays along. An automaton. A robot. _A clone._

Daniel is too wrapped up with his data compiler to come and he's seen it all already. Daniel is always too busy, too preoccupied. And when he condescends to play games or even chess with John, that's what it feels like, condescension. Or, he stops playing and tells John _everything_ he's read that day. They're poles apart. John feels he should take this stuff in too. Learn about these alien people he's landed up with. But he can't. He doesn't belong here.

But Daniel isn't so shallow. Sometimes he's really tuned in. They take a stroll down to the pebbly beach together and end up skimming stones.

"So... what's up? You're not happy here, are you?"

John shrugs. "I'm stuck here for the duration."

And his pebble skips across the waves sixteen times. It impresses Daniel but he can come close at fourteen. He's not so stupid either.

"That's how you see it?"

John shrugs again. He doesn't feel like saying more than that. He doesn't know Daniel enough to bare his soul to him. He's not Ronon. Teyla. Or McKay. It's obvious that Daniel isn't phased out by any of this. Osterholt doesn't even have regular sessions with Daniel anymore. And how does John begin to describe something that he doesn't understand himself? The heaviness…

"Something to... I dunno... tolerate... endure?" sums up Daniel, stooping down for his next stone.

John is still silent. And then says, "You sound like Osterholt."

"It doesn't seem like you have much to look forward to," says Daniel, flicking his wrist, aiming, watching the waves and counting breathlessly to eleven. John takes his turn and the pebble flops uselessly into the water. Daniel stares after it. He has the good grace not to mention it.

"Osterholt reckons I may be coping better," says Daniel, "because I've done this before. Because I've already once technically died and come back . Or... I've coped with the grief of Sha're before. And nothing can be worse than that. I can't see how that explains things, can you?" He bends down and selects another stone. "How I see it, John, this is our life now. What is there not to enjoy?" and he spreads out his arms expansively. And he looks around. The fresh sea breeze flicking up his hair. The sand. The crashing waves. The sun. And yeah, it should be idyllic. Though Daniel has forgotten the Wraith.

The sunlight shimmers on the surface of the water and the light seems to draw John in. He's wearing his shades for the first time, but the dazzle still makes him blink. Here. There. Myriads of lights that shoot out, take him and draw him in. Draw him in closer.

_The Others._

"I miss my team too, you know," says Daniel quietly, juggling his unthrown stone from one hand to the other. "I'd always seen you as a realist. I admired you. You saw a problem and dealt with it. I thought you'd snap out of it by now."

"So did I." And John miss-throws again. "So did I."

John walks off towards the Institute buildings and Daniel follows, allowing his stone to drop.

There's an uncomfortable silence between them that John feels he ought to break.

"They suggest meditation," he says, picking up the courage. It's sort of a question. He wants Daniel's opinion and knows the guy might appreciate being asked, being let into John's world. They're in this together so he might as well make more of an effort towards friendship. Osterholt would be proud of him. It's moving forward.

Daniel stops on the path, surprised because John sounds like he's considering it. "You going to? I didn't have you down as a meditation sort of guy, somehow."

"No. I'm not. "

"Not going to? Or not a meditation sort of guy?"

"Both," says John, with a grimace. "I also have a session booked of… I guess it's regressive hypnotism." And his expression doesn't alter much with the thought.

Daniel resumes walking. "Yeah, they tried that one on me, but I couldn't be hypnotised. It might not work for clones. No life post-vomit apparently."

"They say it might help – to remember something – I'm only agreeing in order to try and find Atlantis." He says it matter-of- factly. He's a soldier. This is his duty now. It's what he has to do. It keeps him grounded in the present. Prevents him looking back…

Daniel stops once more, and holding his head at an angle, studies him oddly. "You… scared?"

"Wad'ye mean?" bristles John, stopping too.

"I'm sorry, I didn't… No offence. I wasn't calling your manhood into question or anything." Daniel shakes his head, smiling slightly. "You are so like O'Neill."

John relaxes. There could never be any offence taken. He places his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders fall. "Yeah, we're all heroes," he says with a touch of sarcasm. He clears his throat. If he can't talk to Daniel who can he talk to? "But you're right, I guess. I _am_ scared. Osterholt says so too. Seems you guys know me better than I do."

And he heads off towards the building again.

"You're afraid of what you might see?" says Daniel, catching up with him.

"Not about Atlantis. I want to know. I want to know what happened to the… others."

"Then… by process of elimination, you afraid of..." and Daniel has stopped on the path again and is rolling a hand to draw him out, and he can be forgiven, this must be like drawing blood out of a stone… "something else?"

John stands still, biting at his lip. He can't say. He can't even say this to Daniel. It's bad enough admitting he's scared.

The 'something else' that happened in between. Since Atlantis. _Before here_.

He tries for a joke instead, attempting a laugh that sounds false, shrugging.

"Hey, I'm afraid I might admit stuff – looking at porn, you know? Stuff like that?" It's not a convincing bluff.

"Yeah. Sure." And Daniel's not smiling. Not convinced.

They resume walking and turn a bend near shrubs. Another awkward silence. He's got to ask a question that's been on his mind these last couple of days, even if it gives away how he's thinking. He inhales deep and slow. This isn't going to be easy.

"You…_ died_ once. Ascended. They said you didn't remember anything."

"No. Nothing. That was part of the deal when the Ancients returned me apparently. Hypnosis was tried back then. Weirdly, all I kept talking about was a … diner. O'Neill said go and get some lunch, that I was just fancying a burger and shake. But you know, I guess I'm, well, dead _now_. And I don't remember any of that either – how I got dead and what I did when I got there. What about you?"

It's a thrown question, like Daniel's not expecting much by way of reply. He says it lightly enough, like it's just conversation though John wonders if he's seen right through him, seen what's really bothering him.

"I can't explain…" and truthfully, he can't. Not even now. Not even when he's had so many flashbacks. He stops and stares down to the path. "Light. I saw…" and he swallows hard. "Light. Loads of light," is all he manages to murmur.

Daniel stops abruptly. And John holds up for him a couple of metres ahead. He daren't look at him though. Not for a few seconds and absently studies the bared roots of a nearby bush. More of that silence follows.

He chances a glance up to see Daniel's reaction. There's a little surprise there and the guy has put his hands in his pockets, sort of pondering him.

Daniel lets out a low breath. "We-ell, I figure that took some guts getting that _one_ out," he says eventually.

"Yeah," John shrugs. "Call me crazy. That's what I saw."

It's out now. _I don't care._

"And you haven't told Osterholt?"

"Once. A dream. Apart from that. No."

"And you're afraid, this is going to come out under the hypno?"

"Yeah."

"But you want to go ahead, because of Atlantis?"

"Yeah."

"And you think you're going crazy?"

John nods.

Daniel rubs the back of his head, blowing out another breath.

"Light? Loads of light? Well, I guess that's you ascended then. Joined our friends the Ascendeds, gone to heaven, beyond the horizon, to another plane, to another dimension, call it what you will, but you went there, you know that?"

John says nothing. It's the only explanation and it's needed Daniel to put it in those simple terms. But it scares him. He's never considered his own immortality before. Even now, he wishes Daniel could come up with some other alternative. He screws up his face, staring down to the neat lawn edge.

"You, um, _did_ know?" asks Daniel, putting his head to one side.

John still says nothing. He badly wants some other possibility to offer itself. He'd even accept insanity. Because all this feels so close to that anyhow.

"I'm no priest but you should be pleased, you know that too, don't you?" Daniel has come close and is trying to peer into his face. "Hey. John," and Daniel touches his arm.

John turns to him, "Then why _don't_ I feel pleased?" he says nearly aggressively.

Daniel pulls back. And it's Daniel's turn to assess the cut of the lawn, toeing his shoe at the grass. He's thoughtful, listening.

"I want to help these people but…" and John raises his head to watch a couple of birds fly from a distant tree. That feeling. That truth. _I don't belong here. _

Bonde's at the Institute door. She's calling them. John lifts his optics and rubs a hand across his face. Yeah, his eyes are moist.

Daniel looks in her direction. "Your nap time, huh?"

"Yeah, guess so."

Daniel gives his shoulder a friendly slap as they make for the entrance once more. "Hey! You'll be ok. Give it time. Yeah, I know that was pretty dumb and clichéd. You get busy and save the world again and you'll be the same old Sheppard. And don't worry about the hypnosis. People must see lights all the time. And Osterholt's swallowed enough treatises to come up with a thousand theories other than Ascension. If you're not crazy or confused already, he'll soon fix it so you are. "

And John is grateful that Daniel is trying to put him at ease. That Daniel has allowed him to unburden himself. They make it to the door that Daniel opens for him.

"Though, the _porn_…" says Daniel, with emphasis, "well... that's something different… they're going to throw away the key. You disgust me, you pervert!" he says more loudly than ever, winking, knowing that Bonde is now within earshot in the hallway.

-oAo-

Sisimiut is architecture. Kjeldsen explains it was all newly laid out one thousand years previously when they discovered pictures of the gothic cathedrals of Europe.

"It seems strange to me," she says, "so many different countries. Yet so much the same and they didn't realise."

"Not till the end, no," agrees John, gazing up at yet another pinnacled tower, remembering how all the military of the world had put aside differences, eventually, to fight their common enemy.

They've taken him to the centre of town by 'car'. And there's yet more cars, humming in all the streets around them now. He's seen them on a distant road, whilst walking the grounds of the Institute, though technically, being wheel-less, they can travel direct overland and don't need roads. They're smaller than his idea of a decent auto and are definitely only designed for utility use – square and squat in shape, and every one of them comes in one shade of a dull matt black, like they can only afford an undercoat job.

"How do they work?" he'd asked Kjeldsen conversationally. It'd been a smooth enough ride. He can't see any airbags slung on their undercarriages which pretty much shoots his theory to pieces, that they're air-powered hover vehicles.

"Magnets. Apparently, your people were on the verge of discovering this as an alternative means of propulsion other than using carbon fuels but you never quite got there. It's unwieldy for anything larger than these cars, but it suits us – no pollution, you know?"

The tallest building in town is the Atlantis Memorial. Inside, it's as echoey as any cathedral. Constructed in honour of all those who died fighting the Wraith or... died at their hands. There are no graves.

He's given the guided tour. John does his best to stifle a yawn and to show a respectful interest but he's never been one for carved arches and columns. It seems too grandiose to serve as a museum, which is what it is, displaying finds from archaeological digs.

And then, this is where he starts to feel uneasy. The first room. Glass cabinet after glass cabinet of personal effects from Cheyenne Mountain. It has all the feel of... It's all the sort of stuff, as CO, he'd pack into a box to send home with a flag-draped coffin. With too many regrets.

Watches. Jewellery. Buttons. Rusty buckles. Coins. Cards if plastic. Wallets if plastic. Corroded remnants of music players, laptops, hand games and cell phones. Razors. Other cosmetic items. Aerosols. Photo and picture frames with faded paper fragments. An engraved silver cup for marksmanship. Shreds of dusty clothing sandwiched between something resembling layers of Perspex for preservation.

There's bits and pieces of medical equipment. And armoury too. The 'skeleton' silicon plates of a tac vest. Helmets. One odd boot that had somehow survived intact. P90s and handguns. Oddly, of all the items, these were still like the day they were last used.

All so familiar to him and all neatly explained and labelled in their language that he doesn't understand. But that, and the obvious decay, slams home the thought, makes the sensation even more acute of the vast expanse of time that now separates him from their users and owners.

They wander into a second larger area, containing the alien artefacts from Daniel's storeroom. John is conscious of Kjeldsen watching for his reaction so he still maintains that mask of attentiveness. He knows she'll be reporting back to Osterholt. But he's hating every minute of this. He feels too that she's disappointed that he's not asking questions. But he's noticed that the other museum visitors make no noise. If they speak, it's in whispers and he's no wish to break that. Their feet shuffle noiselessly as they move from one display to another. It's weird. It's like…and it dawns on him suddenly what it's like… _reverence_.

This place is a shrine to them.

Another room. Painted artist impressions of what it must have been like living deep underground. A mock-screen showing a weekly rota through the gate. The names of Vala, Daniel, Sam, Mitchell and Teal'c are all clear to see. A large hologram repeats five minutes of play over and over, depicting a reconstruction of the Control Room, complete with scientists bent studiously over work stations. An opaqueness like ghosts.

Another room. Another hologram. This time round, it's the Gate that's shown. No sound. No light. It's dead.

And Kjeldsen is eager to show him the recent addition. Drags him by the elbow, through a corridor of dark stone archways and vaulted ceilings, that open up into…

...space...

... light...

...sapphire light that is cast down through hundreds of panes of blue stained glass windows set up high…

He catches his breath. There in the centre, in the centre of all the blue light, stands a model of Atlantis. Some seven metres square. As blue as he remembers her.

There are kids on a school trip, milling around with something like data pads as a teacher quietly reels out all the info. He doesn't understand what's being said. He doesn't mind that they don't know who he is. He'd rather have it that way. Kjeldsen has explained that the general population hasn't been told of the new Wraith threat for fear of a panic. Haven't been told of his 'activation.' But he wonders if he should pat them on the head. Teach them to high five. Treat them to candy from the souvenir stall. But these kids are in awe of all they see. They're not behaving like kids he knows. They're silent. It's nearly unnatural that the kids make no sound. They're intent on the words of their teacher. It's the same reverence of the other museum visitors. Atlantis is holy to them. And John feels a little of that too. Hell, he even did, when he lived in the place for real.

"We found her blueprints at Cheyenne Mountain. We have the detail right?" whispers Kjeldsen.

"Yeah. Yeah, you do." He fights at the tears pricking at his nose.

"She must have been beautiful."

"She was."

He remembers the way that Atlantis rose clear from a sparkling sea.

_Light. _

Kjeldsen speaks to him in a low voice. He doesn't hear. He doesn't hear the teacher's alien words. He allows the light to draw him away. He's drawn upwards to the light high above him, flooding through the stained glass windows. _He doesn't belong here. He belongs with the light. _He feels faint with the echoes around him. Dizzy. He needs support. His fists are grasping the railings of the display so tight, it hurts. He pulls himself together. Brings himself to look at Atlantis once more.

The kids have moved on. He notices then the plaque dedicated to the people that served on Atlantis. Their names. _His_ name…

He's a dead man.

He's heading for the exit and he's not aware of how quickly he puts space between himself and the blue, until he stumbles.

He lands clumsily on his knees and the palms of his hands. And it hurts. And his chest hurts and it's not physical pain. His breath comes as gasps down to the flagstone floor. He feels ready to vomit and fights it. He's hot and his clothes stick to the sweat on his back and arms.

_Shit. This is stupid. _

Somehow, he's reached the end of the dark corridor and can hear Kjeldsen running, shouting after him.

"John! John!"

Her voice, footsteps, echoing and echoing. His name echoing and echoing in some kaleidoscope of sound.

He's focussed now and drags himself, crawling to a nearby stone bench recessed into the wall, and heaves himself up heavily to sitting, hissing as he adds more grazes to his hands. He leans back, closing his eyes, grateful for the coolness of the building behind his head. He waits for Kjeldsen, taking in deep breaths to will away the nausea, willing down the volume of the pounding of his heart in his skull, hating the way his hair and clothes still clamp damply to his skin,

"John, John! I'm sorry! We should have realised…" her voice falters off at the sight of him. By her face, he must look worse than he feels. Real b ad, then.

He's clutching at the seat edge for dear life, he realises. He's trembling and it's not entirely down to the cold, though he's feeling that now, and he shifts, wrapping his arms about his body.

"That it was a mistake to bring me here? Yeah," he says, speaking with effort, but he wasn't about to let her off that easily, with a 'aw, thanks for the apology.'

"You ok?" she asks, eyes still open wide, shocked. He supposes she just wasn't ready to see her hero like this. Osterholt couldn't have prepared her that well then.

_But_ _shit. John. A panic attack?_ He'd seen enough of those in his time in the military.

"Yeah. Legs…" _as useless as fucking jelly,_ " 'pears, you guys don't make legs like they used to," he says, attempting a crooked smile.

She's relieved at the humour and glances at a couple who walk by, who give them both odd looks.

"I'll call for a carrier," she says, getting out one of those credit-card communicator things they have. She means an ambulance.

"I'm fine. Just… just give me a few minutes."

She reluctantly accepts his assurance and puts the phone away but seems at a loss. About what to do next.

"Should I… loosen some clothing or something?" But she still stands there. In shock. And John begins to wonder if Kjeldsen the Technician is only used to dealing with test-tubes and petri dishes and not actual human beings.

"I'm fine," he says again, as if trying to convince himself as much as her.

"We should have known," she repeats vaguely, weakly greeting a family who walk by.

_That I would freak out?_

"I didn't expect this to happen either, if that's any consolation," he slurs out. Perhaps he is going to let her off the hook after all. Be nice. As a trade off.

"It's understandable. You mustn't feel ashamed. When you are physically weakened, mental defences are also down. Events, situations take a painful hue." She must have swallowed a be-like-Osterholt-pill.

She's been looking up and down the corridor, nervous when people approach. This is embarrassing her. He supposes this isn't the correct thing to be doing in a public place, to be slumped on a stone bench. He eases himself forward and tries to appear casual, rubbing his sore palms together, brushing the dust off the knees of his pants.

"Look, mind if I ask a favour?" he asks.

Her attention is back with him. A full gaze. And he realizes she's actually good-looking.

"Mind if I ask you not to tell Osterholt? About this?" He really can't be dealing with giving Osterholt an explanation right now. He can't be dealing with Osterholt trying to mess with his head, when he, himself, can't even get things straight.

"Not tell the Professor?" she falters. "I have… to… file a report…"

"Yeah, I know you do. But you don't have to tell him _everything_. Just say, a good day out was had by all, can't you?"

"A lie?" She can't believe she's hearing this. And the hero has slipped even further off the pedestal.

"He won't know."

"But he has the Perspicuity."

"Wha?" he squints at her, not certain if he heard right with his brain being so damn foggy and all.

"How do you say this? I don't know the exact translation. He has the Wisdom. He is the most highly qualified individual in his field. It's why he was appointed to this position in the first place. We wanted only the best for you. Believe me, John, he would _know._ I realise you do not take to him. But he, all of us, are only concerned for you. We have told you. We have never taken this activation lightly-"

"Look, Kjeldsen. _Carter_," he interrupts. "What's it going to achieve if you tell Osterholt that I didn't pass his little test? That I didn't shape up?" He sounds bitter but it's not solely against Osterholt. It's as much against himself, for being weak. He'd got to buck up and find some strength somehow. Drive everything else away. "I appreciate the way that you guys are fretting over me, but in two days, I've got a job to do, and do it, I will, to the best of my ability. Trust me. I'll get over this. In my own good time. In my own way."

-oAo-


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It looks like a dentist chair and John baulks at the idea of clambering in when Osterholt asks. Osterholt sees his hesitation and smiles. Osterholt's assistant, a young lady that Osterholt introduces as Lila, who's a looker by any century's standards, smiles too. And that's enough incentive for John to ease himself into the chair, settling his head back on the nice comfy padded head rest as Lila makes adjustments to raise the leg section and lower the back. Yeah. Just like the dentist.

And he figures there can't be a lot wrong with him, as his eyes watch Lila's back and hips, as she prepares something or other over on a counter to his left. He's actually thinking his best chat-up lines – Damn. One of the questions the medics keep asking is whether he feels… 'urges'. He's always been able to truthfully say no. But something or other must have just kicked in. He'll still say no. But panics a little that this, as well as the sensation of seeing light, might come out under hypnosis. Not forgetting the porn… Carson's party piece had always been, 'the weird things people say when coming out from under anaesthesia.'

Then he sees the camera. It's like a cold shower. Won't Osterholt ever let up?

"You filming this?"

It had been bothering him that Osterholt might. But John concedes that if he's ever able to give the location of Atlantis, then Osterholt really should get this stuff recorded. How John imagines this hypnosis to work, he might not be too coherent. There might be a need for a couple of replays to weed out recognizable hard fact. That doesn't mean he has to like the idea. Osterholt most probably has another motive.

"Well, yes."

"I'm not your guinea pig, Professor." And John's tone wipes the smile off both Osterholt's and Lila's faces. Crap. He'll never score now…

"I understand, but you yourself might want to see your responses. I'll record for sound only, if you're more comfortable with that. It's important, after all, that you are totally calm and at ease."

John's as tense as hell now. There's an ache across his neck and shoulders. This hypnosis won't work then. He might as well leave already.

"Lila is going to give you a mild muscle relaxant which will help." John eyes up the needle in Lila's hand. He knows there's alarm written all over him. He just can't help it. But she's all smiles again and he's a sucker for a pretty face. He nods, giving her the go ahead. He watches the ceiling as she rolls up his sleeve and dabs a bicep with something cool. He flinches from the sharp jab. Yeah, tense as hell.

The wooziness hits him instantly. It's a nice feeling but he hates being out of control. If he wanted to leave now, he doubted his legs would carry him. He feels drunk but wants to talk.

"I bet you have to keep this stuff under lock and key – it'd make a fortune on the black market."

Osterholt chuckles. His voice is distant though he's only seated on a bar stool at John's right elbow.

"Remember, we have no monetary systems. When compared with your statistics, that fact alone means, we have ninety nine percent less crime."

"I can believe it," he says, but he had forgotten. He wonders briefly, how being so relaxed as this can possibly help him to remember where Atlantis is.

"You understood the last thing that I said, John?"

"Yeah."

"What did I say? Repeat it if you would be so kind? In your own words will be sufficient."

Ok. Some kind of test.

"You don't have money. So your crime rate is ninety-nine percent lower than ours was."

"See, the drug maintains the recipient's lucidity even after the initial 'hit' has passed. We could not proceed otherwise."

The guy can read his mind?

Lila offers to remove his shade optics for him. His eyes aren't quite focussed anyhow. He squints and blinks madly at the daylight but then he hears a click and the blinds are lowered almost noiselessly to plunge the room into darkness. He's aware of Lila taking a seat somewhere behind him.

A holoscreen appears immediately in front of him. He blinks at that too until his eyes become accustomed though it's not that bright. And there's nothing showing. No shapes. No sound. Just a misty fizzing whiteness. Like it's malfunctioning. He glances at Osterholt but the guy is pre-occupied with pushing buttons at some monitor attached to the side of the chair. He guesses this is all normal procedure then.

Osterholt then holds up something that looks like heavy duty ear guards for operating monster trucks. They have an attached mic and John understands he's supposed to put them on. His limp, heavy arms seem to be working against 12G of gravity and his fingers are about as useless as bananas on account of the drug so Osterholt has to help him.

"Not going to use a watch and chain then?" His voice comes over flat and dull through the earpieces. They're pressed up tight against his lobes, so weirdly, along with his breathing, he can hear his heart beat. Nice and steady.

Osterholt puts on his own set, speaking to John through the mic.

"No. We've found this method to be quite effective." The guy seems quite chirpy. Well, he does have John where he wants him. "Now, John, I want you to concentrate on the screen. I'm going to commence a counting of your breaths. Try counting with me in your mind if it helps you to concentrate. Listen to the sound of your own breathing and to my voice counting out your breaths. You are safe here, John. Nothing can disturb or bother you. There is nothing here but peace and tranquillity."

He watches the screen. "Not much of a picture. Ever tried tuning it in?"

Osterholt sniggers out his "one."

"What's it supposed to be?"

_Light. It's light. No._

He shifts in the chair slightly. He's aware of the increase in his pulse and the speeding-up in his breathing. And so is Osterholt. Count 'two' doesn't follow.

"John?"

"Ok. I'm ok."

"Try to remain calm, John. A few moments to relax again… And two. And three. And four."

He hears his breathing through the headphones along with the numbers counted off. Rhythmic. And shadows that he can't fathom it out, take shape in the light of the holoscreen. Grey ghosts dancing in a white room full of potted plants. A 3D Rorschach inkblot test?

"And eight. And… nine… and… ten."

Yeah, definitely potted plants… and what would Osterholt think of his interpretation? A long lost dream to work in a greenhouse? But Osterholt's not doing this right. Not doing his counting right… his voice is slowing… slow… yet… it's perfectly in step with John's breathing… or his breathing is keeping up with the voice… with the potted plants… the dark shapes… whatever… his eyelids feel heavy… did Osterholt say he could close his eyes?… hell, he can't stop… he has to close his eyes… slow… so slow…

"And… thirteen… and fourteen…"

And those potted plants… leaves… buds… flowers… squirm and pulsate slow, real slow… slow… shadows…_ light_… _a circle of light like a gold coin_… suddenly… his legs jerk… he feels like he's falling… tumbling forward… and Osterholt's voice is waking him over the headphones and he's hot and breathless and he guesses the relaxant has worn off because he's gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles.

"John. John. It is complete."

John raises his head and blearily checks out at the now sunshine-filled room. Lila is back at his side, holding his shades and a glass of water, grounding him in his confusion. She helps him off with the headphones, exchanging them for his shades. He wipes tears from his eyes. Tears? Before putting on the optics with shaking hands. He gratefully accepts the water, slaking down a killer of thirsts. His throat is sore like he's been yelling. His body aches. His clothes are damp and clinging with sweat.

"Howda I do?" he chokes out, handing the empty glass back to Lila. She doesn't look happy. Right out of smiles.

"Nothing of Atlantis," says Osterholt, busy at his console again. And Osterholt isn't his usual communicative self either.

"That's it?" He can't believe that was it.

"Perhaps… you didn't do it for long enough. It didn't feel long enough!" and John's conscious he's actually accusing the guy. "We do it again!" he demands, and Lila jumps at his raised voice. Like she's not expecting him to be giving out orders. But hell, they want Atlantis, don't they?

Osterholt straightens up, looks to the window and then seems to make a decision to fill him in… a reluctant decision. What the heck had John said? Talked about porn after all?

"I believe it is pointless to do this a second time for now. You made mention of the gum incident again. It would appear that that is your leaping board, your point of 'creation' as it were, the point when we retrieved your DNA, so we can only access that point…" And he shrugs. "Anything beyond that point is most probably denied us. Lila will take you back to your room. You must rest and shower. And when you are rested, then, perhaps, we can discuss this." Osterholt's politeness barely covers his bluntness. He's standing now. But he's shaken and evading the issue. He won't meet John's eye, and this isn't like Osterholt.

John grabs him by the wrist. "Damn you, Osterholt! Tell me what else I said!" Osterholt looks down alarmed, and John, realising that he's scaring the man, releases his grip.

"I need to know _now_!" John's trembling. The room feels cold. "Don't make me go through whatever it is I went through and not tell me," he pleads, his voice now low, almost inaudible. "Something else must have happened besides." Otherwise he wouldn't be feeling so damn awful. He hugs himself.

"We can't…" Osterholt won't finish and chews at his lip, looking over to Lila. And she's all sympathetic now. And John could do with a load of that sympathy. "It is not advisable. You need to rest. I am not empowered to instigate anything detrimental to your general well-being."

"Osterholt. Fuck all that. _Tell_ me," John grits out.

"No. John. No. You were very… _distressed_… I won't. I won't tell you."

-oAo-

'For the attention of Hjelm Washington, Chairperson, World Ethics Committee.'

'Daily Report of Andro Osterholt, Mental Capacitor, by appointment to the Axelsen Clone Programme, 25.4.8014.'

Hypnosis Analysis of Subject 2486/92B

Part A.

Please refer to attached recording and enclosed transcript, A. (Subject expressed a wish that cameras should be switched off, a request to which I acquiesced) This is self-explanatory. Subject demonstrated a high degree of coherency and clarity, rare in these circumstances, that underline, perhaps, his inherent willingness and determination to aid us in discovering Atlantis. Unfortunately, as you can see, he was unable to provide the required information and only reiterated his last memory of being at Area 64.

Part B.

I have subdivided the recording and transcript into two sections, for reasons that will become apparent.

Following the recounting of the Area 64 incident, my subject, became unresponsive to additional questioning and prompting for a further four to five minutes. In such situations, to progress from total clarity to nothing, I would ordinarily conclude that the subject has put up barriers, conscious or otherwise and would normally terminate the hypnosis. But as I have said earlier, the subject displays an absolute readiness to assist us. It is my belief, that if the subject knew of the whereabouts of Atlantis, he would have revealed it.

His state of mind at this stage showed no obstinacy. Indeed, if his expression was a judge to his thinking, then it could only be described as peaceful and serene. He had been administered the muscle relaxant, bioneoges210, at the onset of proceedings, some fifteen minutes previously. Its effects were wearing off, so the drug was in no way contributory to his condition.

Monitors in place, (of which he was unaware) measured a significant slowing down of heart rate and blood pressure, but a heightened brainwave pattern, a combination that my profession, through its research, has come to recognise as that attributable to deep meditation. Certainly anyone showing these characteristics is experiencing a high degree of pleasure. (Additionally, some of my peers have theorised, that such figures as shown on my monitors, can also be attainable after climax in sexual play.) This was not sleep. The patterns were not a match to dreaming, and the subject was physically perfectly still with no eyeball activity.

Ideally, had I known that the hypnosis was to follow this course of events, I would have procured bloods before and after. I am sure that these would have indicated a production in subject's 2486/92B blood stream of a high level of hiajkensagen, otherwise know, in common parlance, as the 'bliss hormone'.

I was prepared to conclude the session when there was a sudden alteration in the subject's condition. The tension that he had exhibited at the time of entering the treatment room returned and then increased tremendously, yet he did not 'waken'. Heart rate and blood pressure soared. Muscle movement and contractions were marked, to such a degree I was tempted to strap the subject to the chair for his own safety. He began to verbalise, though few words were distinguishable. Having assured myself, that the subject was in no immediate medical danger, I decided to resume questioning, keeping language as simple as possible, to ascertain whether this would lend some structure to his obvious confused sub-conscious thought processes. They follow below and you can draw from them whatever inferences you will.

My conclusion is that, I can no longer endorse the furtherance of any future Clone Programmes. I realise that subject 2490/97A, Daniel Jackson, appears to be unaffected by his 'activation.' But I repeat the findings of my earlier reports, that Colonel John Sheppard is often withdrawn and is exhibiting all symptoms of low grade depression. He copes well with routine and readily throws himself into anything Atlantis-related, but these are, I suspect, mechanisms, goals to work to, either on a daily basis or in more general terms, for distraction, to keep his mind occupied, as it were. He views my assistance and investigations with hostility, seeing them as checks to ensure that he is up to the task, when this far from actuality. In short, subject 2486/92B, as illustrated under hypnosis is a disturbed individual.

I have sought, without success, to discover the source of his unhappiness and have been too ready to accept that it is solely due to missing past friends and acquaintances. Perhaps to some degree, this is still true. But the words that follow, took me completely by surprise, and would indicate something much more profound is in action here, something akin to a near-death experience, of which our modern science has very little knowledge. And I ask the question: what have we been complicit in, by activating Subject 2486/92B?

Words placed in parenthesis are those that are unclear or when subject 2486/92B demonstrated an unwillingness to articulate. NB Possibly language, for example, peace and love, that subject is unaccustomed to using?

Andro Osterholt: What are you seeing, John?

Subject: Bright light. _(The holoscreen was switched off at this point and the subject's eyes were shut.)_

AO: Is it Atlantis?

Subject: Bright light.

AO: What has happened to Atlantis? Has something happened to cause the ship to explode?

Subject: No.

AO: What happened?

Subject: No.

AO: Can you not tell me what happened?

Subject: [Doesn't matter. Not anymore.]

AO: I'm sure it does matter.

Subject: No.

AO: Before the bright light, what did you feel?

Subject: Always bright light… they hold me close… [peace]… [love]…

AO: What do you feel?

Subject: No.

AO: No? You're not going to tell us? Or you simply do not know?

Subject: [Can't feel a bright light, can you? How can you feel a bright light? It's gone now.] Gone.

AO: I didn't hear, John. Did you say that the bright light has gone now? Where do you suppose it went?

Subject: Duty. Atlantis needs me. Earth needs me. I'll go.

AO: Go? Where?

Subject: Back. Back to the dark. I can't… I can't. It's dark… it's heavy… how can I stop it? How can I ever stop it? Theirs. Mine. Sorrow. Fear. It's too… difficult. I can't. I can't go back to the dark. Please don't make me go.

AO: Did the Wraith make you do something?

Subject: Need to. Have to duty. Always duty. I can come back to the light? When I'm ready, I can come back again? Please… Please.

AO: John. John. Are you in pain?

Subject: [Don't make me leave. Home… belong… need to be home… the others… don't make me leave them. Please don't make me leave the others.]

AO: Is it Atlantis, John? Is Atlantis, home?

Subject: They're making me leave the light.

AO: What do you mean by light, John? Is the light… afterlife?

Subject: [I… I… others… love.]

AO: Can you repeat that, John?

Subject: No. No.

AO: Can you tell me nothing else?

Subject: Bright light. It's gone. No. No. No. No. I don't belong here. Earth. I don't belong. No. No. No.

-oAo-


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

They are taken to Cheyenne Mountain by airship. It's no different from the airships of the twentieth century AD, cigar-shaped, measuring about one hundred and fifty metres in length with a gondola slung underneath providing space enough for a couple of dozen passengers including a service area for crew and overnight berths at the aft. The virtual three hundred degree view through panoramic windows ought to be fantastic but an area of low pressure comes in off the Atlantic and for the first part of their journey, they're surrounded by ragged cloud and squally rain. Plus, there's some turbulence as they hit side winds.

"I guess it's safe," winces Daniel, who takes a while to find his 'sea' legs and opts to stay seated as much as possible, settling himself in one of the low sofas scattered about the lounge area. They, and their carers, huddled in one corner holding some sort of impromptu meeting are the only passengers for this particular trip.

John is happy to stand awhile and gaze out to the passing sky.

"I mean… _Hindenburg_," says Daniel with meaning, placing the data compiler he's been given onto a small table and firing up.

"They say they haven't had an accident in two hundred and eighty years," says John quietly.

"Hmm… well, that's good," and Daniel's soon pre-occupied with the screen, aware only once of John leaving the lounge and letting in a cold blast of air through the door that exits onto an exterior balcony.

He looks up some time later to see John, leaning dangerously over the railings, probably to get a closer look at the engines attached to the rear. And he notices Kjeldsen and the other two, also watching John… not a little concerned. He smiles to himself, pushing his optics further onto his nose, and resumes typing only to look up again when John returns, damp and windswept, vainly attempting to straighten his hair. Osterholt is standing near the door.

"You got chased in?"

"Yeah, outside is out of bounds. Guess they think I'll fall overboard," says John sheepishly, slumping himself down onto an adjacent sofa.

"Or catch pneumonia," remarks Daniel, seeing wet patches on John's clothing and how pale he looks.

"They worry too much."

"They don't like us to take risks. They've invested a lot of time and effort-" He stops. John has arched an eyebrow at him. "I've just made that sound like they _own_ us, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you did," says John sighing, stretching out his arms along the top of the sofa and leaning back his head to stare at the ceiling.

Daniel, twists round in his seat to face him. "You know, it's not like that. They're in awe of us. They have no organized religion as such, but… well, just look at the Atlantis Memorial…" and John lifts up his head and looks at him, "there's certainly _ancestor_ worship… big time."

"Whatever it is, I wish they wouldn't do it,' growls John, hitching himself forward to rest his elbows on his knees, gazing down at clasped hands. Daniel thinks the man is fighting the cold and shivering, but knows it's pointless to mention it.

"It's why I feel so settled I guess," he carries on. "I've never come across a civilisation before, so engrossed in discovering its history."

John says nothing, eyes fixed on some point on the carpet.

"They don't give you space, do they? I'd thought on this trip, they were improving. They're sitting over there and we're... here."

John still won't be drawn into conversation. It's not the first time it's happened so Daniel is more than used to it by now.

John stands, and seems at a loss at what to do next.

"If you're bored, when I finish here, we could get out the chess? I'll be another half-hour or so."

John simply nods and leaves him, taking a window seat to look out once more.

Daniel is busy filling in what gaps he can of the events of 2011-12 from memory. Not all data rings from Cheyenne Mountain had survived in one piece. Daniel likes to do this. He knows that they'd rather have a scientist than him. Rather have someone else with the ATA gene. Rather have someone with military expertise, someone who knows how to take on the Wraith. John fits the bill, leaving Daniel feeling superfluous in the general scheme of things. They've even joked about what happens to redundant clones. Do they get switched off? Daniel knows though how important it is to be there for John if nothing else. But what can he do, when John seems to constantly put distance between them?

He always looks forward to playing chess with John, however. Presently, total matches have resulted in a draw. And Daniel has to concede that John is a mean chess player and that's surprised Daniel.

A sudden drop in the airship's height, too sudden for Daniel's stomach's liking, makes him glance to the window himself. The weather has suddenly cleared, perhaps due to the fact that they have left the coast and are now heading inland. As far as the eye can see, is a landscape of nothing but rock and desert. Large dark marked areas, often many square kilometres in size, indicate, even now, where once lay the great cities of America. A sort of scarring. This is nothing new to Daniel. He's scanned all the info there is on his home country, how it was laid to waste and made uninhabitable by the Wraith. And he's forced to harden something inside just so he can concentrate on his work.

He looks up occasionally to check on John, catching glimpses when he does, of distant encampments of tents where archaeology is still being carried out. When they find Atlantis, when this current danger is over, and he likes to think it's 'when' and not 'if', Washington Hjelm, has promised him a tour.

"Want to fly this thing?" he asks, when once John leans with a face pressed to the window, trying to get another closer look at the engines,

John smiles back, coy, like a schoolboy caught unawares.

"Probably, too slow for you, huh?"

They're brought food and watch the world slip by beneath them. Gradually the desert turns to a snow-scape and a howling wind can be heard even above the air-conditioning. The airship passes through clouds of whipped up flurries forcing the balloon to ascend once more.

"I can't see snow or blizzards now," says Daniel, through mouthfuls, "without being reminded of that time McKay and I were kidnapped by those Asgards." He reaches for something that resembles butter and spreads it on something else that resembles bread. He uses it to clear his soup bowl. He pauses briefly to eye John who's playing with his spoon. His soup is barely touched.

"Still can't eat?" he asks.

"No appetite. No." And John pushes away the bowl.

"Hmmm…" He decides to drop the lecture, glancing up, to see that they're once again being scrutinised by Osterholt from across the lounge. Osterholt will be giving John enough of a hard time over this without Daniel giving him his two cents worth. He changes the conversation.

"You know, I have a confession – well, it's thanks really – well, it's both."

John manages a smile as he sips at something else, that resembles very sweet hot chocolate. "Which is it?" The man asks.

"You pick." And Daniel is waving his knife around, now tackling something else resembling a vegeburger served up with roast potatoes. "This is really quite good. And you, you have a sweet tooth, Colonel! No. You pick. I feel bad. That day. In Janus' lab. McKay and I – well, McKay more than me… we… well, there's no other way to describe this… we were like a couple of kids in high school… we made fun of you… for not being so…_ bright_."

"Don't apologise. McKay" and John looks to the window, where the sky in the west is tingeing pink and turquoise. He's wistful almost. Stirred by other memories. " McKay was always doing that to me... It was his thing."

"No, no. It was unforgivable. Because, you know, that day, you saved our butts – and I haven't had the chance till now to thank you."

John shrugs and stands stiffly to stare out of the nearby window, still holding his cup. "I seem to recall that you helped save Pegasus. I think that wins more brownie points."

"No. No. Take credit where it's due."

And as he tackles a fruit salad, Daniel, watches the man, lost in thought, watching the sunset.

-oAo-

Cheyenne Mountain is now nearer the South Pole. They're given thick padded over-pants, matching padded coats with hoods, and gloves against the cold to make the short trip, a five minute walk, from the airship's mooring site. It's fully dark when they arrive. But the bleak atmosphere of the place still hits them. A mixture of sleet and snow blows horizontal though nothing much settles. And the wind howls eerily through the thick wires dripping from makeshift poles feeding glaring floodlights. The ground is sharp and grinding with the frost at their feet and their breath comes out as mist.

There's a scaffolding of sorts at the entrance to the cave, which itself stands some one hundred metres from an enormous slag heap of rocks and dust and tufts of desolate weeds that bend double in the chilled wind. A small village of polytunnels clusters in a sheltered dip where excavating crews once lived. This isn't where they're to be put up. Kjeldsen tells them they have quarters actually underground as so much of Cheyenne has been left completely intact.

The lifts take them most of the way down, sending John's ears popping. This new body of his isn't so used to changes in pressure then and he wonders how he would cope flying a jet, not that they have any, though one puddle jumper takes pride of place in some underground hangar somewhere.

He hates too the claustrophobic feel of the lift.

_Sky. The setting sun... light._

Downstairs, everything is exactly how Daniel remembers it, barring the stuff that's now ended up in museums. It's not new to see it like this. They've both been shown holos. Mainly of the time the archaeologists were at work here, with rooms and corridors, scattered with white marker tabs and ribbons like some virus gone mad with ticker tape. Once it dawned on the World Council, the scientific value of the old base, the historians were quickly moved out, replaced by the scientists in their droves with all their paraphernalia.

"I guess the Stargate gave it away…" says Daniel, looking forlornly at the quiet ring of the Gate, still able to dominate the Gateroom even in this abandoned state. He draws in a deep breath, sighing. "…How important it was." His voice sounds choked. This was his home, of sorts, for so long. John nods and Daniel returns the nod in acknowledgement. They both understand this.

The Gateroom area is abuzz with the activity of scientists in white overalls. Here and there stands one of the small contingent of guards. Earth possesses no official army, or police force as such but a few of those who keep order for the World Council are assembled here in case something comes through the Gate that's more than they bargain for. They're dressed in the usual grey with no protective gear and carry simple hunter's rifles strapped to their backs. John accepts that they'll just have to do. Suddenly, though, this has all the feel of visiting some undeveloped world in Pegasus.

The scene in the room seems like a confusion of guy's yelling at each other, impatient and frustrated with an avalanche of technical hitches. For the pair's benefit, all personnel here have been tutored in Twenty First century English and apart from some of the more specific scientific lingo, they understand most it. They're warned of a long wait ahead before all is ready for John. Possibly even a delay until tomorrow. And an hour of kicking their heels in the Gateroom, sitting on makeshift chairs soon gets boring. Daniel finds himself constantly looking up to the glass panels of the Control Room.

"I'm not sentimental as a rule but-"

"It's the wrong faces," agrees John, trying to get in some shut-eye, propping himself up against the hard surface of a wall behind him

"Hmm."

They'd already been given the grand tour of the Control Room, uncannily identical to their own in layout. The usual holoscreens are absent and in their place are the familiar computer screens, almost as if the present-day Earthians – John and Daniel are never sure what to call them - are taking pride in replicating exactly what was there before. Like another museum exhibit.

Daniel attempts to break the monotony, by strolling around the various groups of scientists, trying to show an interest. He asks one man about the power source. They have no ZPMs nor nuclear power. Sometimes, it feels as if power comes from thin air. He supposes he should have known better. The man tries his hardest to explain and Daniel tries his hardest to decipher _what's_ explained but it's lost on him. He never did get the stuff Sam or McKay talked about half the time. Osterholt comes over and translates for him. Osterholt is watching them closely as always and that could get annoying. John could tell him to scram. They don't need a capacitor to watch them. They've both decided to do this thing. To help these guys access the Gate. To see what is beyond.

Daniel returns to John, sitting, eyes closed still, folding his arms. "Well, here's some more information you might want to know, though I'm not so certain about Osterholt's grasp of the subject." John opens an eye and then closes it again. Daniel's sure he's not sleepy. He's sure the pretence is John's barrier against a possible Osterholt incursion.

"Fire away," he drawls.

"For power, they use magnets and gyroscopes and antimatter. Which has to be generated above ground. The same power they use for their towns. There are no cities. No where are there towns over fifty thousand. The World Ethics Committee have put in place strict limitations on population size. They believe the human psyche suffers stress living in too close a proximity to one another."

John doesn't react. Perhaps he _has_ actually gone to sleep. God knows Daniel's last speech was stupefying enough. Perhaps he doesn't want to break cover with Osterholt.

Osterholt is now caught up in conversation with some official. It's their chance to make a quick getaway.

He nudges John in the ribs and John starts, throwing open both eyes. "You want to come and see my old room. I'm just a little curious…" he whispers conspiratorially into John's ear, throwing a glance at Osterholt.

And they're soon out of there.

But it's a mistake. The former gloomy mood returns to Daniel when they reach the bare, swept out room. John leans heavily against the door frame, gasping from the run. It'd been good but he can't drive this body quite like the old one.

"You ok?" Daniel asks that too many times.

"Yeah." Though John still can't catch his breath and bends over, planting his hands on his knees.

"It's like cars and fridges," says Daniel, "the original model is always the best."

"Yeah," is all John can manage again.

Daniel's not going to make a thing out of John not being fit and easily exhausted. He knows that John hates these new limitations of the clone's body. They've both been warned.

He stands in the centre of the floor space, looking down ruefully at nothing but concrete.

"I'd sorta forgotten it'd been totally cleared. Seems I can't offer you coffee after all. How did I... forget?" He guesses that John isn't the only one with limitations then. "I don't know what I was expecting. Any surviving furniture, and there wasn't much, ended up in that museum of theirs though my personal stuff apparently went missing along with me. They couldn't say where exactly. There were a couple of knick-knacks, gifts and things that I left behind. I used to have a genuine Persian here, you know?" he says, kicking at the floor with the toe of his boot. "They found a few threads..." He then shivers. The emptiness. The cold perhaps – there's no heating here.

John straightens up.

"Sucks, huh?"

Daniel puts his hands in his pockets.

"Or the transitory nature of life?" asks Daniel, with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah. That too," agrees John, who's now holding up a hand against the glare of the room's light. Daniel thinks it odd. It's not that bright. Just another of their temporary low voltage glass crystal affairs that they have. He hasn't a clue how they work and ten thousand years doesn't seem to have reduced the reliance on the electric cabling that drapes everywhere like the roots of some unruly plant that's gone mad. An old fluorescent tube hangs at an angle, grey and lifeless, with a holed crack at one end… yeah, the passing of time…

He sighs. "I suppose we go back then. Osterholt will be missing us." He makes to leave, and then stops, reconsidering. "Though, if I'd died, or _correction_, when I _did_ die, or in the event of my death... this is pretty much how all this would have ended up... I wonder how I _did_ die? Osterholt used to keep asking me that. I don't remember, and same as you, there's no record of how I… met my end. Not this time round, anyhow. I don't remember anything beyond throwing up in that pot. Nothing of the Wraith coming."

John winces. "I'd rather not think about it."

Daniel looks at him. "No. I guess not. I guess it's not the wisest thing to do." He glances round the room one last time. "The whole mountain… no sign of there ever being a fight and no damage but everyone had evacuated. Some in a hurry as they didn't get to take their personal stuff. No one knows why. The experts have to conclude, that despite the granite, the concrete and steel lining, radiation must have somehow leaked in. The theory is that Command deliberately irradiated the place to ensure the Wraith couldn't use it. They made the Gate accessible to only those with the ATA gene, so why not go the whole sixty yards and sabotage the entire base? Till that point, I must have been here – this was still my room. I was sent somewhere safe? What could have been safer than here? I was sent to fight elsewhere? Died with my boots on then."

"I would have heard," says John, walking over to a far corner and turning. "I would have heard, you'd think, if they'd closed the base down. I was often working with O'Neill. He would have said? I know that communications weren't what they were so supposed to be – things quickly fell apart in a matter of weeks. Individuals were thinking on their feet. Things changed fast. There was no time for board meetings. Not even briefings. Those in command…" He pulled a face. How do you explain how quickly people were dying and in such large numbers? "Well, the next day, they weren't in command anymore. Even towards the end, when we were probably pulling through, finally winning, we didn't know for sure… it never did feel like we were winning. _Ever_." He takes the few paces back to the door and peers out into the half-dark of the corridor. "So, yeah… someone could have made that decision and we wouldn't have known."

"It must have been rough," says Daniel. John nods and purses his lips. His eyes suddenly narrow as approaching footsteps can be heard.

"Osterholt," he warns.

"How does he always _know_?" mouths Daniel, incredulous.

John stands aside to allow Osterholt to enter.

"Yeah. We're done here," says Daniel, sighing again, and walks to the door, pushing past the capacitor.

"But you forgot these rooms are empty?" calls Osterholt after him.

"Yes. I forgot. And yes. You do need to put it on your daily report. And yes, I will consider how I feel about the concept of forgetting," says Daniel testily back at him over his shoulder.

John leaves too, giving Osterholt his best think-you've-just-pissed-him-off look.

-oAo-

The Gate activation is postponed until the morning though scientists plan to work through the night. John and Daniel are shown to quarters close-by, furnished with the standard white table and chair but apart from that, the rooms have the same feel of military grey and concrete of Stargate from centuries ago.

John showers, changes into the provided scrubs – he guesses they double as pijamas - eats half of some sort of boxed MRE equivalent alone and turns in. He's done little but travel and has been waited on hand and foot all day but he's still so damned tired. Wearily, he removes his optics and lays them on the night table. He hates it that he can't see a thing without them and climbing into the bed, he manages to knock them to the floor. So damn freaking clumsy too. Sometimes he feels like he's operating his body by remote control at a distance, and not all that well either.

Despite being tired, he lays awake on the bed for some time. It's a fold-up campsite affair, that's way too short. Nothing changes that much, he thinks with a grimace. John doesn't bother unzipping the provided sleeping bag. He switches off the small crystal attached to the wall beside the bed and listens to what feels like the stifling silence in the darkness. He listens to his breathing. He's aware of his lungs working hard. Weight pressing against his ribs and it's nothing to do with being deep underground. Why, at times, is it such an effort simply even to _breathe_?

A door clangs shut somewhere towards the end of the corridor. He reaches up and flicks the crystal light back on. It glows low and orange. He shuffles onto his side and stares at it.

Light. Somewhere there had been light.

And it had been like warmth from a log fire. Had filled him inside. And yet…somehow... surrounded him. Totally. And completely. Safety. Security. No bounds. Not like this light. Small and feeble that browns at the edges of the cell-like room, adding to its sense of walled claustrophobia. He rolls over onto his back again and closes his eyes tight against what seems to be a lowering ceiling.

_Heaven. _

No.

And to his other side. Away. Get away from the light.

_You know that it was Heaven? Says Daniel._

No. No.

The door, a metre from his head, is thrown open suddenly, letting in more light from the corridor that blinds him.

"You couldn't sleep, Colonel? You wish for sleeping pills? To talk perhaps?"

Osterholt.

So there's cameras here too? He bites back the words to tell Osterholt to fuck off, and tries a joke.

"A nightcap? Whiskey?"

"I don't think the doctors would allow..." says the man doubtfully. Well, at least he knows what John means.

John rolls over on his back again and slides an arm under his head.

"Am I ill, Professor?" he asks, with something like resignation in his voice. He feels like he might be ill but he has never really dared to ask the doctors the question. He's never in his life, ever been ill, not seriously, well, not seriously in his _first_ life. Suddenly, it seems like a possibility and it takes some getting used to. No. It's fucking scary.

"I'm sure you're fine," says Osterholt, avoiding really answering the question. "Some other drink, perhaps?" Osterholt is going to bring him a milky drink like his mother used to?

A memory. His mother… A light at night. A light. A halo of light at her head. Comfort. Security...

_Love..._

Shit, John, quit this. You're a soldier now. _Was_ a soldier. What is he now?

"Colonel?"

He rubs a hand over his face. His eyes. "Get to bed, Osterholt. It'll probably be a long day tomorrow."

He glances sideways at the man and sees him nod. And it's weird how John's giving orders here. Osterholt still insists on calling him Colonel, yet technically, John has no authority. He could try another.

"And Osterholt?"

"Colonel?"

"Turn off the damned camera?"

"I'm not sure-"

"Honest. I'd feel a whole lot better if you did."

"I understand that you need to be alone. We are crowding you. I apologise."

"It's ok." Alone. No. He never ever wants loneliness.

But Osterholt says one thing and does another. He pulls over the chair and sits down, with a stiff back. Too neatly. Too correctly for John's liking. It irks that the man can't be more laid back. Some of the slouch of Ronon wouldn't go amiss. The guy is always trying to be friendly but Osterholt surpasses the most uptight of military types. If John didn't know that he and Daniel were the only clones on Earth he'd swear that Osterholt was one. Or a robot. Even his name is robotic. Andro. Android.

"We must talk-"

"No," says John. "It's late."

"I know. But we must talk." Even his speech sounds robotic. "I could turn the camera off. But it would make little difference. I know what you are feeling."

John lifts his head to look at Osterholt, but the man's expression is nothing but a blur.

"You do?" He lets his head slump to the pillow again, to stare at the ceiling. "Telepathic, huh?" He's guessed as much, once before.

"A little. I would not be in this profession if I weren't." John hears the conceited smile in his voice. "I know for instance that you and Daniel Jackson think of me as... annoying-"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say _that_," considers John, trying his hardest to be tactful.

"Oh, but you do _think_ it. Those who deal in truth are usually regarded in that light." John allows the remark to pass. It was just too late at night to get his head round Osterholt's words of wisdom. He wishes the man would leave. He has an uncomfortable feeling where this conversation is leading… and it's something… well, he's just not going to be comfortable with it.

"You regard me with hostility, John, but I have never been trying to discover chinks in your armour, your failings, your weaknesses. I have only ever been trying to ascertain that you were capable of normal human reactions. How were we ever to know how a clone might be? We had no understanding how consciousness, emotions, memories, intellectual thought processes might be carried over to the clone body. You and Daniel, both have amazed us. Mind functions are so normal, it is… perfection."

"So glad we could please," says John, drily, and yeah, that does come out bitter but it _is_ late. "But, mind getting to the point ," he finishes, well aware, he's not exactly winning points on the polite conversation scale but… it_ is_ late.

"Of course." Osterholt fidgets in his chair. John has succeeded in throwing the man off-balance? That's different. Osterholt coughs and finally blurts it out. "The point, yes. One of your weaknesses. That clearly demonstrate just how human you are. Yes. I have worked with similar cases like this before."

"Clones?"

"No. Near-death experiences. These must be close to what you are going through. And you are denying it."

John lifts his head once more, taken aback for a second and then surprises himself by how calm his reply comes out.

"You think? I dunno about any of that. I'm – I _was_ military." He hopes that explains everything. Being military, you shut it off. You faced death but didn't think about it. Didn't think about _after_ death. You certainly didn't talk about it. It was considered tempting luck. Before missions, it was always 'break a leg.' You joked about it. And if someone _did_ die. You held it back. You didn't talk about it. You followed procedures, protocols. You packed up belongings. Dog tags. Informed next of kin. Felt guilt. Felt grief. Didn't show it. And gradually. Didn't feel it. Didn't feel grief, guilt and pain. Trained yourself. Kept it tight. Didn't think about padres' words from the Bible. Didn't think about it in the guard of honour, carrying the coffin. When shots were fired over the grave. Nor when you folded the flag. These were as close to 'after death' moments he could ever allow. He might have had such thoughts when his mother died. Not so much when his father died.

He senses that Osterholt is quietly studying him as his head rushes through all this. He doesn't know how to react to this – what is it? An accusation? He doesn't know what he feels about anything he's experiencing, much less actually discussing it with Osterholt. He wishes Osterholt would leave. His face is warming. His hands are clammy. Damn… he's going to have another panic attack? Put it down. Put it down. And… And… And… he doesn't _want_ to know how he feels. He wants that feeling to be dead inside him, otherwise he's just not going to function… not be a good clone anymore.

"You react to bright light," persists Osterholt. "I have watched you over the days. You might not be aware of it. But you... how shall I put it?... loose seconds, minutes-"

"Not…"

_Not so. _

He needs to escape this. Run...

He abruptly sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Shit!" Too sudden. Blackness and dizziness that sends bile catching at the back of his throat. He grabs at the night table, nearly upsetting it, sending his optics rattling to the floor again. Osterholt is there leaning forward in alarm, prepared to catch him. John pushes him away, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, hating the migraine and the electric dazzle of pinprick lights dancing before his eyes.

"I will call a medic?" asks Osterholt anxiously.

"No. No. Just... just get me a glass of water..." He's hardly aware of Osterholt going into the bathroom and returning but senses the presence of cool glass near his face. He drinks gratefully, aware of Osterholt close by. The sounds of Osterholt, retrieving his optics and straightening the table.

"A medic will come anyway. The camera..."

"I know."

Osterholt takes away the empty glass. John remains sitting, closing his eyes tight, fighting back the nausea, knowing that if he lies down the room would spin more wildly than ever. Osterholt's voice continues at him, relentless.

"You asked if you were ill? Perhaps physically, you still have problems. What about mentally? I am your capacitor. Yet every time I wish to talk about this matter, you shut me out. See how immediate your reaction was? Is that not an illness? Your refusal to come to terms with this? If you are not ill, then you will make yourself so by being in denial. Sometimes, when we are unhappy, the unhappiness manifests itself in actual physical symptoms."

"You're saying this is all in my head?" gasps out John, clutching at the bed as the room seems to tip up.

Hurried steps are heard coming along the corridor and Osterholt speaks hurriedly before they are interrupted. "It must be difficult for you… to have witnessed immortality and then to come… _here… to us_."

"The light – it's just a migraine. It's all it ever is," insists John, swallowing hard. Now there's a pain in his right side, below his ribs. But he's not going to tell the medic who's now in the room. He's not going to give Osterholt any more ammo.

"Yes. Of course. Of course, that's all it is," says Osterholt, not believing him for one moment, seating himself down on the bed beside John. And John flinches at both the pain and the close contact.

The medic, a general night-duty nurse, John supposes, is on his knees before John, a hand on John's wrist, taking his pulse already.

"Did he pass out?" asks the medic.

"Yes, nearly," says Osterholt.

" '_He'_ can speak for himself. No. It was just a dizzy spell. A bad headache," insists John, resentfully.

The medic opens his bag and wraps a gadget round John's wrist to take his blood pressure. John closes his eyes during the procedure, fighting the floating sensation. He has to resist the need to rest his head on Osterholt's shoulder.

"Have you any other pain, other than the headache?"

"No," and John struggles to stop his heart from racing at the lie.

"I need to examine your eyes," says the medic.

"I wish you wouldn't," half-jokes John. His headache is slicing across his forehead. He's sure that if he opens his eyes it'll be a hundred times worse. Make that a million times, if the guy shines in a torch.

"A minute."

"It was just a dizzy spell. I got up too quickly. Seems I'm not used to this damn body yet. Set off the migraine."

"I'll be a minute only. I have to be certain before I can give you any medication to ease that. You might have to spend the night in the Infirmary. I have to be certain, you understand?" says the medic in broken English.

The threat of a hospital bed for the night makes John relent and he prises open his eyes, allowing the medic to do his examination. And John's sure he'll break his jaw, gritting his teeth so hard, to kill the stabbing pain, to kill the grunting growing in the back of his throat.

It had to be worth the sacrifice as a satisfied medic rewards him, handing over a couple of painkillers and another glass of water.

"Let him sleep," says the medic, leaving.

"As you say, a minute," replies Osterholt, standing. "Colonel, I don't know how to put this."

"Then don't," says John, now feeling able to ease himself down to curling over onto his side. He buries his face into the pillow, trying to press out the pounding over his left eye.

"You can ignore me, yes. In my profession, I am well used to patients ignoring me – but do not ignore the truth. You are an intelligent man. You must surely see that you are... unhappy with your situation here... back to... what shall I call it... _reality_?"

The pills must be working already. He feels drowsy. Osterholt's voice becomes a steady drone.

The light. The light wasn't a reality? It always felt so real to him. Comfort. The Others. He knew the Others. There was comfort in that. There is always such... such a longing, such a yearning to return... unhappy... unhappy...

And Osterholt's voice filters through and it's not easy to follow.

"You have only to say… we would never wish you to be... unhappy. We have never insisted that you do this tomorrow. Not to the detriment of your own... well-being. There are... other alternatives..."

What's the guy saying? He can't understand.

"Tomorrow, Osterholt , I have a job to do," says his voice somehow. It's muffled and slurred, as if detached from him. Heck, he's drained and hasn't the energy to talk, how could it be him?

Osterholt says something else that John can't make out. And John is aware of the sleeping bag being pulled over his back and shoulders.

"There, you sleep now… But what will you do if we find Atlantis destroyed?" comes as a whisper close-by." Like he's not expected to hear. "How will you feel about your purpose then? This was a mistake. This was all a mistake..."

And the door to the room closes.

-oAo-


	6. Chapter 6

AN - If you're wise and sensible, you'll read and review. (I'm a little short on encouragement here and I need it – currently trying to write a Todd adventure .)

But if you're not wise and sensible, you'll be following Joe Flanigan on Twitter. It's where I go and I'm sure it's a lot more fun!

But if, on the other hand, you want peace and quiet and solitude from all that, then stay and read awhile...

-oAo-

Chapter Six

In the morning, they wake him. A routine that he has accepted. That is automatic. That his body is propelling him to do. Somehow... somehow, his body, his mind is out of synch. Like his body is doing these things, but a part of him is left behind somewhere.

They set his breakfast on the table and he eats alone again. But it doesn't seem to matter if he eats, he lacks all energy. He wonders if the camera has been turned off. He showers. He feels heavy. He hates this heaviness. Like every drop of water is pounding at his skin. He shaves. His hands shake. The weight dragging down at his hands means he can hardly lift his razor. He drops it and it rattles and spins down into the basin. He leans heavily on the basin's edge, staring at his face in the mirror. His eyes are dark and shadowed. Troubled. Tired.

He takes deep breaths to fight this sensation... of weight bearing down on him. As on all other mornings before this one but unfamiliar to his 'first' self. He switches on the overhead crystal. Blinks at its intensity. For a moment... for a moment... the light takes him... He shuts his eyes tight, groping for the switch again to cast his face in shadow.

This isn't him. This isn't him. However much he wants to please these people, he doesn't belong with them. However much they've convinced him, this is his fight, he knows deep down it isn't. Duty is driving him. It always did. But more so now. However much he'd like to find out about the fate of Atlantis, he knows it's not his problem. It was a problem but that was resolved long ago. Long ago by the ghosts of his friends. By the ghost of Colonel John Sheppard.

It's moving forwards but it's moving backwards. Sidestepped. He's trapped. Trapped in this time. The weight of all those years wearing him down. But it wasn't like this when he was in Atlantis of the future. So... he's ill? Carson became ill? Is this how Carson felt? Being pulled in two directions. Being pulled by... the light. Carson never did say. But did John ever ask? Did anyone ever ask Carson how he felt? It was always assumed that Carson was happy with the situation. Happy to see his mother once more. To see Scotland once more. To continue working. To continue moving forward. Or… perhaps he had no problem, because, at the instant at which he was cloned, he was not yet… _dead_? And John goes cold at the thought.

John has a duty to continue working as John. He has to move forward heavy and in the dark. Because that is the only way to go... but he's tired and wants to rest... he so wants to stop and rest already...

He goes for his routine inspection in the Infirmary. His head is thankfully clear. But the niggling pain in his side has grown to a dull ache that stretches down his right thigh. He still doesn't say. He manages to conceal the limp. But he's scared. Scared that he might be ill. This isn't in his mind. It's nothing to do with the light. He's sure of that. Osterholt is wrong. He's genuinely ill. And they'll probably find out.

Kjeldsen and Bonde are more thorough with the examination this morning. They scan him. This is their own tech. Nothing copied from the Ancients. He's lost count now of the urine samples he's given them. And bloods. Kjeldsen says nothing. Keeps her face impassive. Asks if the headache has gone. Asks if there's any return of the giddiness. Osterholt is there, lurking in the shadows. You must take things easy, they say. They give him yet more pills to swallow. A precaution, they say.

"Am I fit?" he asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Yes, if you take things easy."

"I have a Gate to activate. Am I fit?" He's sharp. Terse. But this is the only way he can deal with this. Kjeldsen waivers. Even Osterholt looks at him surprised. John guesses he might have slipped off that nice guy pedestal they've put him on yet again.

Osterholt approaches the examination table and smiles.

"I will ensure he is wrapped in cotton wool." And helps him off the table. John finds himself leaning hard on the guy before he's able to straighten.

Kjeldsen continues to talk. "Nothing is conclusive. The scan is showing irregularities in organ functions. In particular, there are early indications of jaundice. Surely, you can see for yourself, your pallor… The bloods will confirm if there are any problems. Ideally, you should wait a day for the results to come through."

"We're only going through the damn Gate," he curses. Kjeldsen purses her lips. She's hurt and stung by his reply.

John's starting to feel the familiar rush of panic. If he doesn't do this today, he never will, he's sure of that. He holds it in. Won't admit it. He's afraid that Kjeldsen might spot the signs. No way can he hide the pain he's in for another twenty-four hours. And how much of this is Osterholt reading?

"We don't know what affect the wormhole will have on you," explains Kjeldsen. "The pressures…"

John simply strides off. It's his equivalent of walking along the drunk's straight line. To prove he can.

"As you can see, the Colonel is very determined," he can hear Osterholt say to Kjeldsen.

Osterholt follows him through into the corridor.

"Technician Kjeldsen actually has the power to stop today's procedures – if she prevents your participation."

"I thought _you_ were in charge of everything," says John grimly.

Osterholt ignores the remark. "I have explained many times before, we are only concerned for your well-being. It was unwise of you to have been so… impolite. She might have taken your aggression to be an indication of underlying symptoms not apparent to the naked eye. Most unwise. Especially if you believe today is your last chance."

John turns on him. So Osterholt has seen that?

"I promise I won't tell a soul." Osterholt says very quickly, in defence. "Like I said, I can see how determined you are."

"Osterholt. This isn't some joyride. Somewhere out there, there's Wraith. And you've no idea what those guys can do. You have your museums..." and he shakes his head in disbelief, "but you've no idea. I intend stopping them. Whatever it takes. It's what I'm here for." He walks off again.

Osterholt soon catches up. Heck, what is it with this guy? He's like a leech.

"Duty. Duty. What are you afraid of? That if you stand still for too long, you will be compelled to think of-"

But they've reached the Gateroom and Osterholt immediately gets separated trying to avoid falling foul of the obstacle course of equipment and the chaos of scientists that swarm all over the place. He trips over heavy duty cabling that litters the floor and has to be helped to a box to ease a hurt ankle. John holds back a smile. He must be getting evil to be thinking there's some justice in the world after all…

It's easy enough to lose Osterholt now. Perhaps he might even get the hint that John just doesn't want to talk. He spots Daniel standing immediately in front of the Gate, hands in pockets, staring at the upper glyphs. Who turns at John's approach.

"I hope you don't feel as awful as you look," says Daniel, looking him up and down.

"Thanks," says John dryly.

"They told me you weren't feeling too special last night. Nothing serious?"

"I've just been checked out." Daniel can hear how scratchy John is feeling. He couldn't even fess up to Daniel how bad he actually is. He's just got to get through that Gate, find Atlantis and get her home, before the medics find out something and call a halt.

"Well, not exactly the answer I was after…" says Daniel doubtfully, giving him a sideways concerned look, and he diplomatically changes the subject, inclining his head at the nearest group of beavering scientists.

"Big day, huh?"

"It's the reason I'm here."

"It always helps to have a purpose." And John can't figure out what he means by that.

One scientist invites him to a console of sorts on a pedestal that stands at waist height. A safe distance from the Gate. There's a placement for a hand in a tray that shimmers blue, like the blue on the armrest pad of the Atlantis Chair. It throws him a little how much it's the same. The scientist explains that they had to engineer this themselves from blueprints as the original was missing.

"They have developed this technology?" murmurs Daniel under his breath, looking over John's shoulder. He's having the same thought. "It'd make McKay green with envy, you think?"

John nods. And smiles. But his heart hurts at the mention of the name.

He waits for his cue from the scientist who in turn waits for the ok from yet more scientists up high behind the glass screen. John takes a deep breath and places his hand against the gel. He even closes his eyes but knows it isn't necessary. It's just something he's always done in the Chair. No one has instructed him what to think. He guesses the pad is reading his DNA from the skin on his hand. But to be certain, he thinks thoughts of safety, that it's safe to open the Gate, that it's ok to let these people through.

The pad is cool to touch at first and then warms and tingles against his palm. Something deepens inside, clamps and lurches with excitement as the familiarity of the sensation hits him. And he's never told anyone. And no one else who has ever worked the Chair has ever said they've experienced anything like this… But it's... a little like 'sharing' with Chaya Say. He has learned to use self-control and push it away. Otherwise, it could get damn confusing when there's a fight imminent.

Now is no exception even though he's hardly in top physical shape. All pain disappears. The thrill of anticipation. That works with the mind… but so much more of him as well… a whole body experience… and spirit soars…

_Light. _

_Light… that engulfs him… without words… until… he becomes light… is light himself._

But he's learned to use self-control. And pushes it away.

He hears the first chevron engage and he opens his eyes. He hears the applause from the scientists, the government officials, the guards, Daniel, their carers. He releases his hand and accepts the many slaps on the back, the smiles, the congratulations. All the crazy euphoria, as chevron after chevron engages, presses in on him. He manages a glimpse through the squash of people to the Control Room. He prepares to fight his way up there, to see those first pictures of Atlantis. It's only been three weeks for him but it feels a whole lot longer.

A call goes out over a loudspeaker, that is impatient, that reminds personnel to show appropriate decorum, that warns all those gathered below to make ready for the Gate itself to activate, to clear the area, to remind people of safety regulations. The crowd falls silent and a path is made for the robot, a metre high android looking affair on wheels. It's nothing like a MALP.

John uses the lull as his chance to push his way quickly upstairs, fighting the need to hold a hand against the ache in his side.

And Daniel realizing what he's up to, peels his eyes from the Gate and follows him. A klaxon sounds and the familiar whooshing is heard behind. They pause a moment at the entrance to the Control Room to watch the spectacle below them through the glass panel. It never ceases to fascinate. Even for Daniel who was there at the very beginning. He had once theorised that it was something to do with hope and expectation tied in with the symbolism of water.

The room is instantly flooded with blue, as the water effect bubbles and froths. And the technician announces over the loudspeaker that the wormhole is open and stabilized. There's more cheering and clapping.

"It's an historic moment for them," says Daniel. And John nods in agreement but hating the increased light that hurts his eyes.

All fall silent again. The entire place seems to hold its breath as the robot is manoeuvred up the ramp and disappears through the rippling blue.

John and Daniel are already looking at the row of half a dozen or so screens. All blanks so far. John reaches for his chest. There's a tightness there that's uncomfortable, that merges with the pain in his side. He's aware his breathing is way too rapid. He's shaking. He's feeling hot and his hands are clammy. Osterholt stands at the entrance now. So John quickly makes out to absently massage his arm. It eases the tremors in his hands anyhow.

Daniel has noticed though but makes nothing of it. "If you're feeling half as nervous as me, then you're not doing so bad," says Daniel. He's good now. Always with the reassurance. John flicks him a half smile and then tries to concentrate on the picture in front. Inside, inside is so much dread of another panic attack... or worse...

He can barely make out the pixels before the first call cuts through the air from a tech down the line.

"Zero gravity! Initialize robot's stabilizers!"

His mind struggles to comprehend what that means exactly. Perhaps they've hit on the wrong place. Perhaps it's not Atlantis.

But… this is.

It's dark till the robot switches on its beacon that sends a metre wide beam across the area John recognises as the Lantean Gate Room. His heart lurches. His former palpitations instantly mushroom to full blown pain.

"Is audio on?" he says hoarsely, trying to control his breathing and his face, clenching his fists at his side.

"Yes, sir."

But he knows the answer to his own mental question. The way the beam punches holes into pitch blackness, stroking the pillars and stairways. Atlantis is empty. Dead.

He can't explain it. Somehow, he'd hoped to see, _hear_ life. Friendly life. Even... and it's stupid... the same old Atlantis of his own time.

A glimpse is seen in the murkiness, of consoles high up beyond the railings. Hope rises and then smashes again instantly. They're unsheeted. Abandoned then. And the windows beyond. Nothing shines or sparkles. A dull grey ghostliness.

And silence…

Silence too at Cheyenne. Though Atlantis has been found, there's none of the earlier elation. Perhaps everyone feels the same as him.

The Control Room quickly recovers and bursts into activity as technicians fire out staccato readings. Screens flicker with the rapid scroll of numbers and stats.

"Location?"

Co-ordinates are called out. And confirmed. "Milky Way!"

"No life support!" Shields must be breached.

"Pressure indicative of vacuum. " Open to the void.

"No life signs!"

"No power!"

Atlantis is floating in space. Dead.

John pulls away from the consoles and rests his shoulders against the wall behind, closing his eyes. The pounding of his heart has slowed but somewhere, inside, something hurts bad and he prays that Ostroholt is preoccupied with the screens and isn't watching him.

"John," says Daniel quietly. He opens his eyes and sees the understanding in the other man's face. Daniel pats his arm.

"I'm ok," he says.

"At least, she appears to be one piece, huh?" Daniel thinks he's freaking out over Atlantis. It's not just Atlantis. It's the whole damn thing that's happening to him.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. He moves forward to look at the screens again. He finds it difficult. Blinks hard. Too much light from the screens. The migraine of the previous night hits brutal and sudden and he hisses, reaching up to his temple, letting his hand fall immediately, praying that no one would notice.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yeah," he lies, checking out Osterholt, who's limping a couple of steps further along the aisle… fuck… but Osterholt's attention turns to the new torrent of questions and responses that go along the line of technicians.

"What's that?"

Some are pointing at an area of fuzzy light on their screens.

"Unconfirmed."

"Confirm."

"What is it?"

"Set to pathogen detection."

"Robot detecting organic substance."

"Confirm."

"Can't be confirmed."

"Instruct robot to take samples."

"Halting the robot now."

"Increase the robot's lighting!" is John's own command, now leaning heavily on the chair in front. They all turn to look at him, surprised.

"Lighting is already at optimum level, sir."

Beams of light from the robot are dancing, piercing the air in all directions.

"It's detecting dust."

"Dust?" asks Daniel, throwing a guarded look at John.

Dust motes catch in the beam. The beam is angled towards the large stained glass window. It's like the darkened space in a cathedral.

_Light. His people. In the light. _

"Yes, sir. Dust. It means-"

"Yeah, I know what it means," says Daniel, interrupting, glancing worriedly at John a second time.

"Well, I don't," complains John. "Someone care to fill in?" and he almost glares at Daniel, who turns away.

A tech dares to speak up. Slowly. Softly. "Remains, sir."

Crap.

He feels bad. Daniel hadn't been bragging and had cut in only to spare his feelings. Things are going wrong. He's getting confused. And he lashed out because of it. To fight what's happening to him. He's gripping the chair in front, locking his shoulders, locking his knees to stop himself falling. But it's hard to fight this. His body feels so damn weak and heavy. He longs to… longs to go down… lie down… sink down… He swallows, once, twice, three times and coughs to stop himself throwing up. Perspiration is running down his face. How could this happen so damn quickly? Get a hold. Get a hold.

"Confirmation. Robot confirms that dust samples are of organic origin."

"It might not be human, sir, but-"

"It's… old… As in a few thousand years old…Their forensic have had a lot of experience with this… they're always finding… dust," explains Daniel lamely.

"You mean… it could be…" The crew of Atlantis. His team. Even...him…

Then.

He squints at the screen, trying his hardest to focus, trying to stop the room swaying.

There. There. Near the lower steps. Something floating, buoyant in the nothingness. Rags?

"No…" he murmurs under his breath.

"Don't look, John," says Daniel, touching his arm. "Best not to look.

"I can deal with this," he says huskily. He's done this before. He's found dead versions of himself, of his team before.

"Ascertain if any such similar is in the locality," goes out a new order.

"Instigate full sweep!"

"Hey, you'd better sit…"

Voices that he doesn't hear. Swallowed in white noise in his ears.

A strong arm wraps round him. He curls into it, falling.

"Daniel… Dan…"

"Someone, call a medic!"

-oAo-


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to those who sent in reviews and alerts. Most welcome!

* * *

Chapter Seven

"Wha…"

He wakes with a start, with no clue where his is, the time, the day of the week… has to be doing something… urgent… And then he remembers. And wearily rubs a hand across his still clammy face. Groggy as hell. Hating the fact that he's ended up in a bed in the infirmary anyhow. Daniel is close by on his right, talking to him.

"You… blacked out. I say 'blacked out', because I know you military types hate the word 'fainting'. Apparently."

"How long?" he rasps. Not that it matters. He's here now. And he realises he might be stuck _here_ indefinitely. He lowers his hand, that snags at attached sensors and wires linked to a monitor. The same monitor that Kjeldsen is scrutinizing. It might as well be a lie-detector – he's not going to able to pull the wool over her eyes for much longer.

"Ten minutes," she says, curtly, hardly changing her expression. From her lack of bedside manner, he guesses, she's not forgiven him for his behaviour of earlier.

"They got you in here pretty quickly," explains Daniel. And Kjeldsen peers over to the archaeologist, seeming to appreciate the compliment. "Thought you were having a heart attack."

John is propped up by pillows and glances down to his bare chest. It's stuck with some sort of strap threaded by yet more wires that also snake over to the monitor. His ripped shirt lies in shreds at his sides. He's not covered but thankfully, he still has his pants on.

He's aware now of Osterholt sitting on a bed across to the far side of the infirmary, chatting to the medic who's binding up his ankle.

Kjeldsen glances in that direction too. "The Professor says it was another panic attack," she says.

"_Another_ panic attack?" asks Daniel, stunned.

John looks away. And yes, he possibly should have told the guy. "And you didn't think to mention others?" he asks John. "Clones hanging together thing, here? Exclusive members of Earth Clones United Club?"

John chews at his lip and hopes he looks as bad about that as he feels. He starts an apology, but it's just too complicated to explain why he kept the truth from Daniel and he shakes his head instead.

"But I'm not so certain…" continues Kjeldsen, doubtfully, "we are still waiting for your blood analysis to come through… look, Colonel, if you were in pain, you would _tell_ me, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't rely on that, would you?" inquires Daniel, faintly sarcastic, as he walks over to a lone bar stool and pulls it over to the foot of the bed, heaving himself onto its cushion. Kjeldsen seems puzzled and Daniel spells it out for her. "Haven't we just proven his poor track record as regards honesty?"

John pulls a face. The truth hurts, they say.

"_Have _you experienced any additional pain?" asks Kjeldsen, directly and firmly, her gaze full on him. Like some schoolmistress.

"No," he lies, "apart from the migraine, no."

She stares now at the monitor. Will she see something? He's trying his damn hardest to control his heart rate. To muster up his best school kid no-I-haven't-been smoking-look. And the monitor doesn't beep like a lie detector might be expected to beep. It doesn't give him away. He _hopes_.

Kjeldsen looks away satisfied. He's getting too damn good at this lying, but then again, at the moment, he's in no pain. Perhaps Osterholt is right and these have all been panic attacks. Psychosomatic.

"Until we have your bloods, I can't give you anything stronger for the migraines. I'm not happy about your general health. We have to so careful. On account of Dr. Carson Beckett."

She looks from Daniel to John checking that they understand.

"You recall that he suffered a major degeneration of body tissue. That's the reason behind the daily medicals. We have to be on constant lookout for any first indications of a problem. In my last report back to the Institute, Colonel, I recommended that as soon as the Gate was accessed, you return back there. After this collapse," she shrugs, "it is most likely the request will be endorsed."

His relief at not being found out evaporates. Even Daniel looks at her alarmed.

"I'm getting into Atlantis, now I've come this far," he grits out. "I thought you guys still need my gene to get Atlantis back to Earth?"

"Our scientists can reverse engineer much of this now," says Kjeldsen, like she's learnt that by rote.

"Surely that will take you weeks?" asks a surprised Daniel. "Years even? Well…" he sighs, shifting on his seat, "I guess it's commendable that you have every faith in your scientists, but neither McKay nor Sam were ever able to fathom out how to dispense with the ATA gene. You guys aren't getting overconfident, are you?"

He probably doesn't deserve it, but John is grateful for the support and he adds his own defence.

"And you might not have that long. You said so yourself. You have no way of knowing when the Wraith will get here. You've got to let me stay. Another twenty four hours won't hurt me, but could make all the difference."

"No one is asking you to risk your health, John. You were never created specifically for this task. You were never, what is the phrase? Made-to-order."

"Oh, come on! Not as museum pieces? Curios? Hmm?" scoffs Daniel lightly, throwing up a hand, eying up the ceiling with mild disbelief. It's John's turn to look at Daniel surprised. He's never realised that's how Daniel sees their situation.

"No," denies Kjeldsen, offended, "you are both individuals. Neither of you are forced to do anything."

"Free will and all that jazz, huh?" says Daniel, "but you're making him go back when he doesn't want to and doesn't feel a need to."

"What he says," puts in John.

Kjeldsen reddens and seems flustered, folding her arms, rubbing at the area above her elbows fretfully with her fingers.

"At least, show some... have some pity on the guy, huh?" coaxes Daniel, "and let him actually look _round_ Atlantis? Like he says, he's come this far. Don't take that away from him now."

She looks over to Osterholt, considers and then relents, letting her hands and shoulders fall in resignation. "Very well. Twenty-four hours it is."

"Forty-eight," amends John.

"Hey, don't push it!" says Daniel, standing. "Though… while we're on the subject of favours,

how about keeping Osterholt off our backs? He looks like he could do with a good four weeks of bed-rest, don't you think?"

-oAo-

'FOA of Nanuk Fretheim's office, General Secretary, Government HQ, Sisimiut, Greenland.'

'Sender: J. Aaberg, Head of Science, Cheyenne Mountain.'

27.4.8014

'Our scientists have surpassed themselves. When this mission is over, I would suggest a new World Honour to be awarded to each and every one of them. Many are working triple shifts in our attempt to fly Atlantis home as soon as possible.

In as little as twenty four hours, teams have accustomed themselves to wormhole travel and space with no prior training. Areas destined for immediate human access were provided with a fully operational life support system. A power supply was installed, and anti-gravity mechanisms were put in place – both of which, at the present, have only ever been theoretical science and had never been put into practice. We have no shield as yet. Our ability to emulate the Ancients eludes us on that point. But as each section is cleared, we have been able to secure a scaled down version of protection from the vacuum of space with the use of temporary force fields. Provided crucial areas are open to us, we do not see the lack of a shield as an obstacle for now.

The dust and 'rags' are confirmed as Wraith, and not human. It is also confirmed that the remains, desiccated by time are ten thousand years old. The remains are at an advanced state of decay, preventing any proper autopsy as to cause of death.

However, there are strong indications this might have been due to asphyxiation as one Lantean ventilation shaft has been discovered jammed open.

In close proximity to all corpses were 'stunners', which might point to the fact that the Wraith had not long boarded Atlantis.

Death must have followed soon after as no attempts were made to rectify the ventilation fault on the part of the Wraith. They certainly had little opportunity to initiate their own systems to replace those of the Lanteans. Colonel John Sheppard has said they were capable of such technology and reminds us of the paramount importance of preventing Atlantis falling into Wraith hands once more.

The absence of human remains would suggest an evacuation rather than a surrender though it is felt surprising that the operatives in Atlantis would give her up so easily. Neither can we envisage the Lanteans having abandoned Atlantis because of the shaft as it is a simple error that can be rectified as our own technicians have proven.

We are assuming that there was some other malfunction, perhaps with power, that meant that repair was impossible? And that the Wraith boarded Atlantis hoping to make their escape, or even turn the tide of the war, little realising that they had boarded an already paralysed vessel. Their own vessel/s is/are not in the locality which is providing another mystery. Did they access Atlantis via the Cheyenne Gate before Cheyenne was closed?

Little can be discovered from initial searches of databases. Few have survived intact. Many are corrupt, offering only ten percent of retrievable data if we are fortunate. One information system, a sort of repository of last communiqués between personnel has shown signs of being wiped. Was this before evacuation and contained information deemed too sensitive to fall into Wraith hands?

We have no exact knowledge as yet, as to the fate of the crew. They must have 'gated' as all puddle jumpers are all accounted for and are intact. But if they returned to Earth, why has all trace of their ultimate end gone unrecorded? Perhaps a return via the Gate was impossible if Cheyenne Mountain was already irradiated as we have always imagined?

There are still as yet many unresolved questions that the scientists are still looking into. Hopefully these will be settled as we go deeper into our investigations.'

-oAo-

'For the attention of Hjelm Washington, Chairperson, World Ethics Committee.'

'Daily Report of Andro Osterholt, Mental Capacitor, by appointment to the Axelsen Clone Programme, 27.4.8014.'

Subject 2486/92B

General observations: At the request of Senior Technician, C. Kjeldsen, I have agreed to make today's meeting with subject 2486/92B the last, unless otherwise asked by Colonel Sheppard or yourself.

It is against my better judgement as I feel there are still so many unresolved issues in the subject's mind. There has been an occurrence, twice now, of what appear to be panic attacks. What has caused them? I would have preferred another hypnosis session to get to the bottom of this. I will concede, however, that there is little to be gained from further discussions when the subject is so clearly resentful of them. And I admit that cessation of meetings with the subject, will in no way impede our task and the direction he is determined on, namely, to bring Atlantis home.

His general health, or rather his disregard for his general health, might prove to be more of a concern and you have C. Kjeldsen's own report to clarify matters.

I am enclosing, as per usual, video, and a transcript of the final session.

Andro Osterholt: How do you feel?

Subject: I keep taking the pills.

AO: Senior technician Kjeldsen tells me she would have liked to have returned you to the Institute and you have persuaded her a… stay of execution as it were. Despite her misgivings that you might be in poor health, you are carrying on regardless. This is your idea of... heroic?

_(Subject makes no response.)_

AO: To me, it appears like…

Subject: What?

AO: Destructive on your part.

Subject: Suicidal?

AO: More… self denial. An aggression that is finding a loophole, an escape to the world of duty. What we call… 'automodification'. Even 'environdisplacement'.

Subject: Those sound like big words to me. What do you think I'm 'escaping' _from_ exactly? Ever thought it might be all this analysis? I was never one for sitting around contemplating navels. I just get on with the job.

AO: So tell me, how do you feel? This time, not physically. What do you feel, for example, about the remains found?

Subject: I don't feel good about it, no.

AO: It brings it home that your friends are all dead?

Subject: That's (_long pause_) harsh.

AO: Which part of _my_ job did you think excludes me from being harsh, as you call it? I thought you were always one step ahead of me, John? Knew my game, John? Yet you can't see that I'm trying to get you to face your fears head on?

Subject: I don't fear death.

AO: No. But you do fear solitude and loneliness.

_(Subject makes no response.)_

AO: How can you be surrounded by people and yet feel so unhappy? And Daniel hardly compensates. Not after what you've experienced.

Subject: What do you mean?

AO: Heaven, John. What most people perceive as heaven. You may mourn the loss of Atlantis but you mourn the loss of that more.

Subject: I don't _(Pause. Incomplete sentence)_

AO: Understand? No. I imagine you don't. This is beyond words, is it not? But I'm perhaps somewhat boring for reiterating this. You know that something is wrong but can't recognize what exactly. Let me do the hypnosis again.

_(Subject stands suddenly.)_

Subject: Will you quit with trying to mess with my head. I've told you before, I'm not your lab rat to experiment on.

AO: I admit to a professional curiosity, yes. But I am not your enemy, John Sheppard, rather a friend who has your well being at heart, contrary to what you sometimes believe of me.

_(Subject makes no response.)_

AO: Apologies are not necessary. Hypnosis would simply confirm the conclusion I have already reached. We should not have brought you here to our times. We interfered with something that does not concern us. We… I didn't know… we interfered with your immortal soul, John, and we had no right.

Subject: _(After long pause)_ Ten minutes, right? I promised you ten minutes. This session is over.

_(Subject leaves the room)_

-oAo-

"So the Wraith all perished at the same time Atlantis disappeared?" considers Daniel as Bonde updates them. "Got on board and then couldn't fathom out how to drive the thing? Atlantis herself killed them finally."

"As yet, we have not discovered human remains," says Bonde, casting John a cautious glance. "We are assuming that either there were never any crew on board or they escaped through the Gate."

John says nothing. He still has no idea what has happened to his team. Perhaps they will never know. And does it really matter? Let ghosts lie still. He remembers the dust floating in the light. Ghosts in the light.

_Once… he was safe in the light. _

'_We should not have brought you here to our times. We interfered with something that does not concern us. We interfered with your immortal soul, John, and we had no right.'_

They gear up in protective suits, something akin to Hazmat suits. The scientists say there are no dangerous substances but its best to take precautions. Life support has only just got up and running, so air quality is none too brilliant anyhow.

The suit is clumsy. The visor, and the optics he wears beneath it steam up with every breath despite the ventilation pack. He could do without that as his eyes are weakening. They've upped the magnification for him to maximum. Increased the light reaction to maximum. He regrets that time he made fun of the class nerd with the thick lens glasses way back in second grade. With these new optics, he feels he could make a perfect role model for all class nerds.

With detail gone, he's more aware of shadows and light. More and more, despite the shading, he is blinded by light. Sometimes he feels… best not to feel… but when he is blinded by light… he doesn't want to escape it…. he doesn't want to turn away… he wants more of the light… he wants the light to take him… And he welcomes the way that the Gate takes him… it's as if…

...best not to feel…

'_Heaven, John. What most people perceive as heaven.'_

He sees and understands enough that the Gateroom is unprotected as soon as they arrive. And there's only the one technician working at the controls. His reaction is automatic.

"Where's the guard?"

Bonde flushes with the error. She has a radio and immediately calls for security. She explains that all security personnel are involved in aiding the scientists, clearing areas for the scientists to advance further into Atlantis, to access critical sections, to get Atlantis up and running again.

"It's sloppy. We could be anyone," he growls.

"I'm sure the technician checked out our ID and we were expected," she tries in defence.

"Believe me, it's been done before. An apparently safe ID falling into the wrong hands. There should have been someone here."

"You don't let up, do you?" smirks Daniel. "Still on the job after a few thousand years," he says, airily, attempting to look up at the ceiling as much as the restrictions of his suit and helmet will allow.

John can't see the funny side. Perhaps he should. But when he acts like Colonel Sheppard, his head clears of all the other stuff and he can push it away and think more clearly.

'_Duty. Duty. What are you afraid of? That if you stand still for too long, you will be compelled to think of-' _

_The light._

_He doesn't belong here._

"They're not being careful enough. They're a long ways out. They have no shield. Their long range detectors are defective, unable to determine a UFO from a drift of cumulus. Atlantis is their only weapon and then, only when the Chair is operational. They're vulnerable. Yeah. I should be concerned when they're getting carried away like kids in a candy store – this could blow up in their faces-"

"Like… bubble gum," interrupts Daniel, bemused by the lecture. "But, you're right, of course," he says sighing. "Speaking from experience, it's usually at a time like this that shit happens," he explains to Bonde, who smiles, appreciating Daniel's lighter mood. She probably fancies him rotten too.

Daniel nudges and winks at John as Bonde walks on, inviting them away from the Gate. "It's the way that you tell it. You don't always have to scare them half to death, you know?"

There's a whole load of light now. Searchlights have been rigged up with wires trailing over every floor space.

The light catches on the stained glass window at the top of the stairs. He blinks, staring at it. He never really looked at it this hard before. The light at the window is so... It could take him… surround him completely... and he feels… he feels the light could absorb him… best… best not to feel…

'_You react to bright light… I have watched you over the days. You might not be aware of it. But you... how shall I put it... loose seconds, minutes.'_

Looking round Atlantis now, he feels… loneliness…

'_But you do fear solitude and loneliness.'_

They've been given flashlights to go exploring. Osterholt has left them alone but John bets he'll expect some sort of full confession of how cut up he feels about all of this. No. He walked out on his last and final session. But he needs to… he needs to stop _feeling_… perhaps Osterholt can help him… John should give the guy a chance… heck, is this how desperate he's become? That he's prepared to open up to Osterholt?

The light catches at the walls. There's a sheen on rivulets of condensation where the air that's being pumped round meets up with the subzero cold. The suits are good for that too. At keeping in the warm. It's going to be a while before the place reaches a comfortable temperature.

He finds the stairs heavy work as if artificial gravity isn't in place. Earth's level of G's hasn't been attained yet so he should be finding this easier, not harder. Perhaps he's tense. Yeah, that's it. Tense. Muscles are screwed tight. He's every reason to feel tense, hasn't he?

Atlantis is dead. He feels…

'_How do you feel, John?'_

He feels, she doesn't respond to him anymore. He knows it's because her power is depleted. Perhaps she knows… that he's… dead too and doesn't recognise him. He is nothing more than a ghost of days gone past. She is nothing more than a relic. He doesn't belong. He doesn't belong in a world that doesn't speak to him anymore. Even these guys from Earth do not speak his language. He just doesn't belong.

He feels… so damned lonely.

Perhaps none of them belong here. They're all intruders. Perhaps Atlantis was never meant for anyone other than the Ancients. That's why the expedition's leasehold was so short on the place. Perhaps this second chance is going to be fated too.

With Daniel and Bonde, he checks out the Chair room. Yet more scientists mill around. Panels have been removed from the Chair. From the walls. From the consoles, and lie scattered all over the floor. As if… they're dissecting all they can lay their hands on. Dissecting a dead body. It's… sacrilegious. Hell, big words, John. He hunches his shoulders. Why is it he can't get excited about any of this? They have a job to do, he knows that. Strangers assaulting Atlantis… Let her rest… Let ghosts lie still. What is the point in raking up the past?

'_We should not have brought you here to our times. We interfered with something that does not concern us. We interfered with your immortal soul, John, and we had no right.'_

"Let's get out of here," he says to Daniel. They nod to Bonde, engaged in some conversation with a tech and leave her there.

They make for the Holo-room. Power is rigged up to the platform. There had been hope that a hologram was left to explain what happened in her final days. The consoles have thrown up nothing. Not even a last Gate dialled in the time period they're interested in. The data is probably corrupt with the passage of time. One scientist has a theory that the data was deliberately wiped. Perhaps the Wraith did that inadvertently when they took over, before trying to substitute their own programmes.

The scientists are in heaven. Kids in the candy store. Nothing has been added since Atlantis was called back to the Milky Way to fight the Wraith. But the scientists are in heaven downloading this stuff. Yeah, he agrees with them that it's quite something how this has withstood the passing of time. Yeah, the Ancients were quite something…

Something triggers. In his head, he's been fighting Wraith 24/7 solid for four months now and in that time, he'd almost forgotten the Ancients… ascension… light… he pushes back the thought…he mustn't feel... he has to… he has to push it away, or else go crazy.

But if it's not the light, it's those damn memories that crowd his head…

McKay. If he'd been able, he would have left something. Some clue as to what has happened here on Atlantis. Then… he hadn't been able… or… had left in a hurry… His mind sees McKay in Atlantis. Sees him at the consoles. In his lab. In the canteen talking with his mouth full of food. Sees them all. Teyla with Torren John. Ronon, Woolsey. Keller. Abigail. Chuck. Carson. Lorne. Elizabeth. Aidan. He sees them here in the corridors. Ghosts…

He stumbles, coming up hard against a doorpost.

"You ok?"

He wishes he has a dime for every time Daniel says that to him.

"Yeah. Ok."

He's not ok. He feels pain now that the drugs can't hold back. He's fading. He fights it. He draws up deep breaths and forces the fading back.

"Where to now?" asks Daniel.

He doesn't know where to go. It's aimless. Walking with memories.

John feels like he needs fresh air but that ain't gonna happen. His suit is recycling stuff that's stale and his skin is sticky with perspiration.

"You've seen my room, now it's your turn?" suggests Daniel.

He sees no reason why not. He follows Daniel's flashlight through the darkness. Their footsteps echo along corridors. He wants to follow the flashlight forever. He's going crazy here. With this obsession with light. He should say something to Osterholt.

"Done this before you know, wandered round a deserted Atlantis." He tries to be conversational. To cover up how he feels. "It wasn't much fun then."

"I know. Read the report. Sam thought you'd been compromised."

"Mind the dust!"

In the murkiness, they come across another group of scientists who've found yet another Wraith corpse and are cordoning the area off. They skirt round and he stumbles again, holding himself tight against a pain in his side. While he's about it, perhaps he should take himself off and tell Kjeldsen the whole truth too.

"Hey," says Daniel, who holds up, swinging the flashlight to his area…

_Bathed in light…_

"We can go back if you're not feeling up to this. I'm in no particular hurry to satisfy my curiosity as to the state of your centuries old boxers, you know. It can wait another day."

Daniel is holding him up by the shoulders. And he has no recollection of how he ended up slouched against the other man. He must have blacked out for a few seconds. He feels nauseous and swallows hard. And panics. He has memories of vomiting in spacesuits and helmets before, and vomiting in the confined space really is the worse kind of vomiting ever.

"I can keep going," he says, straightening up, breathing hard.

Daniel lets him go uncertain. "I'm not sure if I'm impressed by that or not."

"We'll just get to my room and then head back."

"Hmm… Still not convinced… Should we have come even this far without a guard anyhow? In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Colonel Who's-signed-on-for-ten-thousand-years, we're not carrying." And Daniel pats an empty thigh where a holster should have been strapped.

"It's not far now," he says with the short sharp words that cover up how he is feeling.

They reach his room. The controls have been hacked and wires hang limply from the hole in the wall. The room has been searched. As have Teyla's, Ronon's and McKay's. And still no remains have been found. Other than that, their belongings have been left untouched for now. There are other priorities. But John's been informed that he can take away whatever mementoes he wants. He's unsure. As military commander, he's been through rooms and put things into boxes to be passed on to next of kin scores of times. That was always bad enough. To see the possessions of those three would be… he feels it'd be unbearable.

They peer through the half-open door. John leans heavily on the jamb, his breathing is laboured and he doesn't even bother to conceal the way his hand holds at his right side. Daniel probably can't see it in the semi-dark.

The light from the flash passes over the interior.

"Uh oh, looks like someone's trashed the place since you left," Daniel sing-songs. "Hope you paid into a good insurance company."

The zero gravity has taken its toll. Has lifted and then scattered, scrambling everything all over the floor space. Only durable plastics and metals are recognizable anyhow. His laptop, he knows, has already been removed, for analysis, for clues.

He spots his skateboard. Metal sticks are all that's left of his golf clubs. Fragments of the frame of his bed and a chair. Footprints in dust. The dust, the scientists tell him is all that remains of his clothing, his papers and books, the wood of cabinets and his desk. His mini fridge sits on its side. Lamps, CDs and DVDs all add to the heap of trash. The light finds them all one by one. It pretty much looks like some city lot that the locals use as a dump. All that's missing is a burned out auto or two.

His dog tags were never found. Lt. Col. John Sheppard definitely hadn't died here either.

"Seen enough?"

John nods. He doesn't know whether to feel sad or not. His head is swirling and he's gripping the door tightly. His sweat is making his hands feel slippery inside the gloves. He longs to lie down. This is more of a mistake than he's realised. What has he expected to see exactly?

"I guess this is how we envisaged Atlantis to be the first time round," muses Daniel. "You guys were lucky to find her so intact. Still, give me an old fashioned rocky ruin to do archaeology in. This place is just too near… _our_ present, if you know what I mean."

John does.

"You know, I've never told anyone this, but I'd always wanted Atlantis to be a _city_ city and not a spacecraft city. I guess, deep down, I took my school days Plato too literally." Daniel is talking to cover up the uncomfortable silence.

"You taking anything?"

"No," is all John can manage and he pulls away from the door. But Daniel plunges him into darkness as he suddenly darts into the room.

"Wait up."

And John is aware of him picking up an object from the floor. "This caught the light as we were turning away. Will you look at that!" And he turns into the corridor, holding something small in the palm of his glove, lifting up the flashlight for a closer look.

"What is it?" gasps out John, trying to sound interested. But he's just about ready to collapse and he can't make out anything so damned small anyhow.

"A coin." And Daniel dusts it off with the finger of his glove, sending the light of the flash careering all over the place. "A rare 1916 dime." Daniel whistles low and offers his hand out for John to see. "Now I _am_ impressed."

John's hanging onto the doorframe for dear life. He's going to have to tell Daniel how bad he's feeling. Daniel is going to have to radio for help. Pain is radiating out, shooting up to his shoulders, neck and head.

"Don't… need… it… You keep it." His lucky dime. Winged Liberty head. Symbol of freedom. He has a memory of tossing it once... He can't trust he'll remain upright if he reaches for it. But it's like everything in his room. Material things that have no meaning. He guesses he always felt that way about possessions. About his father's wealth, about amassing possessions.

His father… his mother… family… _the light… the Others…_

The flashlight is wobbling like crazy in the dark.

"You sure?"

"Help… yourself… Not…" he swallows hard, "technically mine anyhow. Clone… 'member?"

"Hey, I'd better get you back-"

Yellow light explodes in their faces.

Massing to blue light that impacts muscles hard.

But it's darkness that takes him…

-oAo-


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Uhhhh," groans Daniel, rolling over onto his back. "And again, for an encore... uhhhh…"

He lies still, contemplating the dark gloom above him. "I guess… shit just went and happened."

He arcs his neck to see the bars to the cell behind him, but regrets the attempt that sends a cut of pain to the back of his eyeballs, and makes the odd angle he's viewing his prison, and a faint light in the corridor, swing and blur.

_Easy does it, Daniel. _

He rubs his eyes, which isn't easy with the weird tingling numbness in his fingers. They sort of don't go in the right places that his brain tells them too.

He shivers. The dampness. The dankness. And the cold pretty much confirms it – yep, shit went and happened.

Sheppard.

A warm still bundle beside him. Well, at least he's warm. That has to account for something. Daniel turns over to his side, propping himself onto one elbow to check him. John stirs with the movement.

"You ok?"

"No… not really," grunts John, who, like Daniel a minute before, gingerly uncurls and eases himself on to his back.

"We were stunned. Or something," says Daniel. Guessing from John's point of view that just has to be the most banal statement of the century. Or two. Or few hundred. "By Wraith." And he's surprised by his own tone of indignation, that verges on… pouting.

Daniel watches John's eyes flutter to opening. Both of them are missing their optics. Perhaps they fell off somewhere when they were hauled in here. John lifts his head and groggily seems to take in his surroundings, letting his head fall back again exhausted.

"Feels that way," the man whispers weakly.

It really is cold in the cell. The light is poor. But Daniel can see perspiration on the John's skin and his pallor is red and flushed. The hazmats have been removed. Probably to search them for weapons, he supposes. So, it's not as if they're overdressed or anything.

"You're hot. Stunning affects you like this?"

"No. Not usually. Been a while though. Perhaps I've forgotten." And John moans with another attempt to make himself comfortable on the hard floor. "Now _aches_… those I _do_ remember."

There's enough feeling in the palm of Daniel's hand to reach for John's forehead. "You're sick." Damn. So Kjeldsen was right after all? Damn, and Daniel had persuaded her to let John go doing the tourist thing? Damn. And John wasn't having another panic attack in the corridors… John, not being honest with him again…

"Perhaps... it's something I ate," says John, making a brave stab at levity that Daniel appreciates.

"I guess we've missed our daily check-up," says Daniel ruefully. "It's not this place making you sick?"

He could well believe this place could make you sick.

Shortly before this place could make you very dead.

Very gruesomely dead.

But he's grasping at straws. Finding an excuse. He doesn't want to think he's responsible for John being here sick when it's bad enough that they're here in the first place.

John mumbles something that sounds like, 'Where are we?'

"You can't see?" He thought that even without the glasses there were enough clues for John to figure it out. The man is probably far more gone than Daniel realises. John blinks and it's apparent that he can't. Daniel tamps down on his alarm and tries a good muster at keeping his voice level.

"Not sure. I'm sort of new to this. But unless I'm mistaken, it's a Wraith ship."

They'd been caught in a culling beam, re-materialised onboard, then stunned to haul them to the cells. He guesses that's the broad general scheme of these things.

John drags himself over to the nearest wall and pushes himself up to sitting. He's visibly making the effort to focus. To speak even. Swallowing hard. "Yeah. Think you might be right about that. No shield. We were sitting dogs." He draws a deep breath. "Jeez, I'm thirsty."

"Hmmm." Daniel can commiserate with that but can't help him. He gets to his feet and unsteadily walks to the bars, using the wall at his right side for leverage and balance. He peers into the obscurity beyond, wondering where the guards are. And if they were present, could he honestly ask for water? And would it be the drinkable variety anyhow? Probably not.

"Ten thousand years and the Wraith are still around?" he says.

"Yeah. Good aren't they?"

With sensation returned to his fingertips, Daniel suddenly realises that he's touched some icky mess substance that drips down the walls. He screws up his face in disgust, shutting off his nostrils, rubbing his hand down his pants briskly.

"The reports about Wraith ships never said anything about the..."

"Crappy smell?"

"Yeah."

He's weighing up the corridor again, eying up the edges of the 'bars' for weak points. He grimaces. If anyone ever cared to ask him to find something close to his idea of stretched tendons stripped of flesh, blackened with decay for good measure, it would be these bars. But he doubted they ever would ask… because, who would?

"No way out of these cells then?"

"Not unless you have a dozen knives concealed in your hair that you can throw at the controls, no."

"Have you?"

"No."

"Hmmm."

Daniel puts his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips. Somehow he doesn't feel ready to do the 'submission to fate' thing just yet. He guesses he'll have to.

"So... we just wait."

"Pretty much."

"We just wait."

Daniel nods and waits a few seconds.

"You know, I've just about had enough with waiting. Can't we yell? Get their attention. Draw over a guard. Overpower him. Seize his weapon."

John shakes his head.

"They'll only be more to take his place. A _lot_ more."

"Didn't think that was much of a plan. Usually works on TV though."

"They'll come for us when they're good and ready. At least… at least they didn't put us in the cocoons."

"Well, yes," agrees Daniel, pulling a face, "I should be thankful for that. Why do you think we didn't end up there?"

"Need information."

"Ah," and Daniel points to his temple, twirling a finger. "The infamous Wraith mind probe. And does it, like they say-"

"It hurts. Yeah."

"But we're not exactly going to be giving them the latest info they need are we? I mean-"

"Been out of the equation for ten thousand years? Yeah."

"So then, it'll be the cocoons for us, after all. Think they'll like the taste of clones?"

John sounds off something like a cross between a snort, a cough and a gasp. Daniel looks down at him with sympathy. It's pointless asking him how he feels. Daniel knows he'll just say he's ok when he's not.

He goes back to perusing the shadows of the corridor.

"Wonder where the others are? Or do you think we're the only ones taken?" He thinks keeping John talking may help John take his mind off things. But he's probably struggling to hold up his end of the conversation so Daniel's not exactly doing him any favours then. What the guy really needs is rest and medical attention. And he's not going to get either of those in the short foreseeable future.

"Hope so. Can't…believe… I just wasn't thinking straight. Half those scientists shouldn't have been there. Too damn dangerous. Not the place for a sightseeing tour. Not a museum."

John's leaning his head against the wall, gooey mess or not, eyes closed, holding his belly, drawing up his legs tight.

There's noises far off. Footsteps that don't exactly echo but rather vibrate through the walls. These are organic vessels Daniel reminds himself. Even sound gets carried by osmosis.

Four guards. Daniel has read his reports. He knows what to expect. But these aren't drones. He wonders if that's a good or bad sign. Somehow these Wraith look a lot thinner than those he remembers from vids. He wonders if that's a good or bad sign too.

At least, they hadn't had to wait for so very long.

As they unlock the door, Daniel backs away nervously. Yeah, he has to admit to dread deep in the pit of his stomach. John simply looks at them sideways in a resigned sort of way. Two enter and push at Daniel's chest with stunners forcing him into the corner of the cell while the other two stand before John.

"He's sick," says one over his shoulder to the other two. Daniel starts. Yeah, he's seen the reports but he's still surprised by the voice so guttural and sibilant all rolled into one.

One of the Wraith, pinning Daniel in his corner, leers back at his fellow Wraith. "You are afraid? You take him. He's the one with the ATA gene. He is the first to be questioned. That was the order."

Daniel and John exchange glances across the cell. Suddenly it seems John's fully alert at the remark. He nods from his place on the floor. They're both sharing the same thought. They've both been tested when out cold.

The Wraith still seems reluctant to pick John up and John has no intention of obliging and helping him out by actually standing. Daniel can see he's going to be left behind here so he makes an offer he knows they won't refuse. However brave a face John is putting on at the moment, he bets John could still do with the moral support. And Daniel feels it's down to him to try and find a means for the pair of them to escape. They have to stay together.

"I'll carry him," he volunteers.

The suggestion isn't turned down. He guesses they're well used to human slaves and were probably going to force him to do this anyhow. The Wraith make way for him and he lowers himself down to his knees, wraps his arm round John's waist and heaves the Colonel to his feet.

It's not easy though the man is light. Daniel supposes he's been taking it too easy as a clone lately. Then again, he's been stunned or whatever, and he's no idea when he last had anything to drink or eat either. _ And_ there's a veritable labyrinth of corridors and cavernous rooms to manoeuvre. What are all these rooms for anyhow? His heart misses a beat when he remembers that the Wraith ships were, in essence, huge food processing and storage plants.

John's feet are soon dragging and acting as brakes. And Daniel finds his own body is protesting. And it's not long before one Wraith, impatient with the slow progress, when both men are panting and gasping as if they've just sprinted the 3.43 minute mile, abruptly hands his stunner to a pal and takes John's other arm around his neck, sharing the load.

"Oh, well done. Don't want him dying of exhaustion, now do we?" He considers praise is in order. Be nice to them and they might be nice to you. Isn't that what some wise old guru had said to him once? Be nice to someone and they'll return the charity a hundredfold? _Might._

"His lordship does not like to be kept waiting!" growls the Wraith. Not acting on humanitarian grounds then.

"Lordship? I thought you guys had Queens?" And John seems to rally a little at this piece of information too.

But Daniel hasn't exactly a chance to ask whether that's a good or bad thing either. Four or five more minutes of struggling on, and they enter a cavern-like room.

It's empty of all furnishings, except for a desk at one end where one lone Wraith works under a dim light. And it's largely dark, save for the desk lamp and a vague grey mistiness that swirls round at the walls.

They're marched to the centre and brought to a halt, their escort leaving them there, taking positions in the semi-darkness at the perimeter of the room. Daniel's unsteady, holding up the sagging John. His arms ache but other than drop John unceremoniously to the floor, he can't see what else to do but remain how he is.

He looks to the Wraith still working, and to the guards, motionless like some macabre dummies at a waxworks museum, their bodies lost in the murky gloom, the silver hair on the crown of their heads glinting and strangely haloed from a light above.

Daniel can't figure out its origin. It's less of light, more of a sort of translucency radiating out from behind a pelmet running round the arched ceiling, coming from the very fibres of the walls themselves.

John, he notices, is also intent on looking to the light rather than at any of the Wraith. The light is muted but it appears to blind him. Why look at the light then? He seems to find it as curious as Daniel? Perhaps, and Daniel's heart sinks, that's all the guy can see? Shadow? Light?

Daniel squints in the direction of the desk. The Wraith, the boss Wraith, his lordship is alternatively writing, seemingly taking notes, and tapping away at some sort of computer tablet. His head is turned away from them, the desk-lamp catching at long pale grey tresses covering his face but it's not difficult to sense the intense concentration that's going into his work.

It's one of those embarrassing silences that Daniel thinks he ought to break but goodness the Wraith must know they're there. It's starting to feel like being brought before the headmaster. Daniel coughs. Not that he wants to be interrogated or anything but his arms really _do_ ache. And quite honestly, he'd rather get this over and done with, and find out their fate. His stomach heaves at the thought so he coughs again.

"Hup!" comes loud from the Wraith that Daniel interprets as 'don't interrupt!' A long elegant arm with a draping sleeve is held up for silence, though the Wraith's gaze never pulls away from his laptop.

John is slowly slipping down from Daniel's hold

"S'okay. I can stand now," says John, aware that Daniel is tiring supporting his weight.

"You sure?" But Daniel lets go, grateful, all the same.

"Did I not just this minute request quiet?" booms out the Wraith, now turning his head their way.

"Grouchy, huh?" insults John.

That just has to be a mistake, is the thought that flits through Daniel's mind just then. And John's defiance is brief, lasting all of ten seconds. His legs give way and he drops to his knees. And then onto all fours before Daniel has a chance to even react to catch him.

Daniel's at once down on the floor to lend a hand. But they fully have the Wraith's attention now and he's out of his seat in an instant.

"No! No! No!"

This is not good.

"Light!"

The Wraith's furiously beckoning at a guard who immediately busies himself at a wall control panel, and John flinches as a spotlight switches on directly overhead. Daniel wants to tell them to turn the darn thing off, but he can't peel his eyes away the Wraith, hobbling over to their area, a useless leg dragging behind and one clawed hand held stiff and close to his side. Old injuries. This has got to be bad. One insult and a bit of a disturbance gets him so riled up? Old age. Must be old age. All Wraith look old but this one really is holding the Old Age World Cup.

"No! No!"

Daniel instinctively scrabbles round to position himself between the old Wraith and the prone John. But the Wraith, despite his geriatric appearance, has the muscle power to push him aside, throwing him sliding across the floor. He ends up face down, winded. He's disorientated and finds he can't fight off the hands of the two guards who pick him up, pinning his arms, preventing him rushing right back to John's side.

"No! No! No! It cannot be!" continues the Wraith with his string of negatives. He's on his knees beside John with no thought to how difficult it is to get down there and grabs at John's chin, lifting his face, turning it to the left and then to the right, peering, scrutinizing, wheezing heavily.

Daniel is convinced he's going to feed. It's his turn. "No! No!" he yells out, battling against the arms of his guards. "You leave him!" he demands, but yeah, as threats go, that's about as much use as hitting a fire alarm with a banana.

"John Sheppard. Well, well."

Daniel suddenly stops with his struggling. Amazed at the recognition in the Wraith's voice.

"Tell me these old eyes do not deceive me?"

John looks at him blearily. "Todd?"

This is _the_ Todd that Daniel has heard so much about?

"You are sick, Sheppard?" With just a hint of actual sympathy that seems out of place here.

Todd, pulls back a sleeve and reaches with his long bony hand towards John's shoulder. Daniel renews his struggling. And John jerks alarmed, rolls a fraction to lean back on his elbows, to edge a few inches away from the Wraith. It's as far as his strength will take him.

Todd leers back at Daniel, amused. "Your friend believes that I intend to feed?" he teases.

"Yeah. Well, for a minute there, so did I," agrees a relieved John, breathily.

"Why so? Who are you really? Come from the past? Or from another Universe? Is that now possible? Have humans now devised the means? For you are not of now. A John Sheppard of now might know," and he holds up his palm for them both to see, "that Wraith have not fed on humans for eight thousand years." He lays his palm on John's chest. John allows it puzzled, still flinching slightly even though he's seen there's no feeding maw.

"There is something here that is not correct," considers Todd, as if listening to John's heart. "Your life force has been interfered with? It is this that makes you sick."

"Yeah. Right. And when did you get a degree in human medicine?"

Todd laughs lightly. He eases himself stiffly to one knee.

"Who are you? Or perhaps, _what_ are you?" And he looks from John to Daniel for an answer.

"We're clones," tosses back Daniel. Hey, the defiance feels good – but not the sudden rush of panic that immediately follows that perhaps he's been just a little too reckless with his bravado, and heck, it's not like being a clone means he's dangerous or anything...

But Todd seems little bothered. "Ah... Earth now has that technology? Hmmm… a clone with the ATA gene… now would be most useful… and so you are re-claiming Atlantis? This is why you were there?"

"At the risk of sounding like we're asking for our ball back, yeah," says John, pushing himself up to sitting. His face twists in pain with the movement and a hand wanders to his right side. Daniel's chest goes tight simply watching him. John shifts slightly but it seems there's just no position in which to get himself comfortable. His eyes fall shut a second or two but he throws them open again when Todd leans in close. He seems to sniff at John. Searching. An astute expression. Detecting.

"I could have healed the other Sheppard but not you."

"Well, thanks… for trying," hoarses out John, sounding like he doesn't believe it for one moment.

"I hold sufficient still of Sheppard's life force, you see."

"Don't go losing sleep over it on my account," retorts John, sounding more like his old self. And Daniel can't believe he's hearing this. The way that John thinks it's safe to taunt Todd. The way that Todd allows it. He's heard of the uneasy relationship between these two. But here there's a current of something quite different.

Todd stands unsteadily, nodding to the guards to release Daniel to see to John.

"He needs drink," says Daniel, once he's at John's side again, wrapping an arm around his back and propping the guy up against his shoulder. John's as feverish as ever and now has the shakes. Daniel's not sure if they'll get the drink but it's worth a try. This isn't exactly following the formula of an interrogation as Daniel understands the word. He's been all keyed up to be in the grips of some excruciating torture at this precise moment. This is more like buddies catching up on old times. Perhaps they'll even get a beer.

"Yes, yes, of course," and the Wraith snaps a finger and another guard leaves to carry out the order.

Todd paces a circle that takes him outside the ring of light. He's still limping and his hands are clasped awkwardly behind his back, owing to the crooked angle of his damaged arm.

"I thought you had discovered a way to travel through… beyond the boundaries of time… this is how you are here…" He stops, as if perusing the mist that eddies at the walls for his answers.

"You sound disappointed," ventures Daniel. He still can't get his head round actually talking to a Wraith, getting involved in something like a regular conversation.

"No. But it would simply have made life…" he pauses in his pacing, contemplating his words with head held to one side. "_Interesting_," he finishes in that slow hissing way of his. "It has been a long time without..." and he looks back, eying John thoughtfully.

And John returns a glance. There's that silent language going on between these two again.

What had Todd wanted to say? Companionship? Or the thrill of the fight?

Water is brought. And food. On a tray. That is placed on a small table carried in by more Wraith. A couple of chairs are set up. It all seems so civilised.

One Wraith pours drink into a beaker and offers it to Daniel indicating that he should help John to drink. John is leaning heavily against Daniel and Daniel can feel his trembling. He needs more than drink. He needs to get back to medical care. He's not sure if Todd can offer that. If his hospitality will stretch that far. If they're still regarded as captives or not. Daniel accepts the beaker and holds it for John to drink. Slowly, John's own shaky hands come up and grasp the beaker, and Daniel lets him finish, unaided.

Todd helps himself to food from the table, unperturbed by the two men still down on the floor.

"You will come and sit and help yourself?" Todd asks. "Please. There is more if you require more."

Daniel looks at John. "Give that a rain check … if that's ok…I don't think…I don't think we're hungry… and I think he's better off on the floor. He doesn't want to be moved… Ideally, we should be heading back…" He feels hesitant with his suggestion though he tries to make it sound normal, in keeping with the nice little tea party this has turned out to be, but essentially, he's dropping the biggest hint of all time, to be freed.

"Hmmm…"

Well, figures Daniel, that's about as non-committal as you get…

Todd, himself, shuffles over to them, stoops, grunting, offering to take John's empty beaker. John lets it go into the Wraith's hands. The two exchange glances again. John nods. Nothing is said. He seems to understand this act of kindness, but it's counterbalanced with a sizable portion of mistrust. Todd pours out two drinks, refilling John's and preparing a new one for Daniel. He passes them down and both men murmur thanks.

Todd slowly sips his own drink, studying them, his black eyes narrow, never wavering from them for one second. But then Daniel is watching the Wraith just as intently. Eight thousand years of eating and drinking but he still looks like its alien and difficult for him to do. He salivates messily down his chin, and every so often wipes his mouth with a cloth from the tray. It seems to gives him little pleasure. Daniel pulls a dubious face at his own drink, not convinced it can possibly taste good judging from Todd's reaction.

"That's a problem to you? That we ought to get back to Atlantis?" He asks, toying with his beaker but seeing John drink again, decides it's worth a try. It's actually refreshing. He doesn't know what it is but it's not water. He hopes it's not drugged.

"He wants to know whether we're still prisoners or not. Us and any others you kidnapped." They both look with surprise at John who's just spoken and who appears to be coming around with the drink.

A flicker of offence moves across Todd's face. That might be down to the bluntness in John's tone. Or that he's just been accused of abduction.

"We do hold the others. Yes," he says, his face smoothing over, obviously deciding to answer with frankness. "We had to ascertain who you were exactly. We have been guardians of Atlantis since…" He chooses his words carefully. "…since Atlantis met her fate."

"Guardians?" asks Daniel. Though he wouldn't mind a bit of intel on 'fate' too.

"We have been keeping watch on Atlantis. We did not want her falling into… the wrong hands."

"She's a very powerful weapon, yeah," agrees John. "But… surely you mean, you were hoping to get the jump on someone who happened to come through and fix her."

"He's hung around for _ten thousand_ years?" asks Daniel of John. John manages a shrug of sorts.

"Yes, I am patient," says Todd, slitting his eyes, letting out a slight hiss, nearly affronted that Daniel wouldn't think he'd be a wraith prepared to wait that long.

"What happened ?" pants out John, falling back against Daniel's shoulder once more, exhausted, after only a couple of minutes of talking. Daniel quickly takes his beaker from his hand and places both empty beakers on the floor. "What happened all those years ago, that it needed fixing anyhow?"

"You do not know?" asks a genuinely surprised Todd.

"I don't have all of… 'his' memories. Nothing about Atlantis' last days. I'm assuming… I was involved somehow."

"You wish for an explanation now? I thought that you wished to return to Earth and medical care?"

He's going to release them after all?

"You can keep it short," says John, returning to that hostility that he uses on Todd. "And… _then_ let us go." John moves slightly, pulling up his legs, shutting his eyes tight for a second. Daniel feels his whole body going tense beside his.

Todd places his cup carefully and deliberately on the table, pondering the request long and hard. He walks off slowly to the other side of the room, his lame leg seeming to cause him pain, or… some thought is. Apart from his head and shoulders, he's lost in black shadow.

"I permit your freedom and Atlantis will be… 'fixed', as you say?" He's weighing some problem up. Pros and cons.

"Yeah, they'll be those who want to fight you over her, yeah."

"Why are you so cynical of my intentions?" Todd growls, smarting from the remark. And he looks back at John over his shoulder, who returns the look, alert for some reason.

"Anyone who's prepared to wait for ten thousand years," grits out John, "is just got to be pretty damn determined – about something."

The Wraith suddenly chuckles at what he sees as a compliment.

"And you guys couldn't 'fix' it?" John sucks in his breath. It's hurting to talk. "Ten thousand years is a long time to be frustrated." It's nearly a jeer, a laughing at Todd's expense and the smile drops instantly from the Wraith's face, replaced by what Daniel can only describe as a snarl. He wishes John wouldn't provoke the alien like that – not when their freedom, or even their lives is guaranteed at this point.

Todd takes his wounded pride and faces the far wall again. There's an almost inaudible sigh.

"I admit it," he says, eventually, without turning. "We failed to restore Atlantis. We found her abandoned, broken, but she would never answer to our tendings, to our nursings. We could never supplant or configure our own interfacings. In all the ten thousand years, nothing would work… Atlantis… ah… Atlantis died too. She speaks to no one. As if, she died of sorrow, Sheppard. It's as if she died of sorrow…" He falls silent, head held to one side, contemplating the wall. He swivels round abruptly, his tone changing. "Ah, but I deviate… I could release those scientists necessary for the repair work, and you too, and hold the others to ransom in return, could I not? You would think that would be the course that I would follow? You would expect that? I may not feed but I may make that threat."

"You won't. I'm sure you owe me," says John. It's bluff. It's John attempting to strengthen their bargaining position.

"I do?"

"I'm sure you do," agrees Daniel, nodding emphatically.

"I secured your release from Earth that time," says John, "You wouldn't be here now, if it weren't for me."

Todd flinches. "I earned that freedom," he gravels out resentfully. "I came to you offering assistance and warning. I owe you nothing. I do not even owe you the story and even if I tell it, how can you be certain it is truth?"

"Because you've be waiting ten thousand years to tell me... somebody who'll listen... you'll burst if you don't… like I said, ten thousand years heaps up to one big shit load of frustration."

Todd sighs again.

"I can give you truth. And to be short as you requested. We picked up a faint Wraith distress call. Surprising in its brevity. We tracked it back to source… back to the Milky Way… to here. When we arrived, the Wraith were all dead. We were too late to lend assistance."

"And?" Asks Daniel, rolling his one free hand. "There's more? There's got to be more."

"No. That is all," says Todd, feigning airiness, gazing to the ceiling.

"What happened to the humans on board?" asks John.

"Humans? The humans escaped and left Atlantis to die," says Todd, with contempt in his voice.

"Of sorrow," confirms Daniel. Todd throws him a murderous look which holds him in check and he loses his nerve to say more.

"Where did the humans go? They escaped back to Earth?" asks John.

"Who can say?" shrugs Todd. "The humans were of no concern of mine. They simply were not there."

"He's not telling us everything," says John, stirring on the floor, indicating to Daniel he wants to stand, though he staggers a step once Daniel has helped him to his feet. Daniel finds himself puzzled. How could John possibly know?

"We're going now, Todd. You take us back. Me. Everyone. And quit messing with me. You spell it out before we leave." He throws off Daniel's arms and leans on a chair for support. He's angry in his stand-off with Todd.

"You think I lie for an ulterior motive of my own?" Todd has taken himself back to his own desk, and like John, grips the top of his chair with both hands. "You think that I would not want to consider your feelings and hold back the truth?" he rasps out, eyes firing with… emotion, at least equal to John's own.

John falters. Daniel's sure he's probably not used to Todd using words like 'consider feelings.' Daniel's sure that Wraith aren't _supposed_ to talk like that. He's read all the reports. He should know.

Todd eyes are scanning John's face and John looks away, to the light. Todd follows his gaze. Nothing is said for seconds. A minute. Two. And then Todd nods knowingly. A sudden realization. A Wraith equivalent of a penny dropping.

Todd hobbles slowly over to John, passing through light to shadow and again to the light, that emphasizes every crevice, every wrinkle of his face and the spark in those black eyes. All the time, he is watching the light above his guards. His head is turned as if listening, still listening for that penny dropping.

He's close to John now, his voice so low against John's ear that Daniel finds it difficult to pick up what's being said.

"There is more to Wraith than you know, John Sheppard."

John stiffens at the close proximity but makes no attempt to move away as Todd continues.

"Did I not say that to you once? It applies still. Though things have changed. I have changed. I do not feed. But there have been other changes too. A natural evolution perhaps? Perhaps," he muses, "it is to do with all these human life forces that I hold? An accumulation of what… _soul_? You have changed… it is little to do with being a clone. I can sense it. You watch the light. You know about… _soul,_ do you not, John Sheppard?"

'_I see light. Loads of light.'_

'_You ascended, you know that?'_

Oh crap, bad timing. Not now, John.

John fidgets with the back of the chair, though still not giving up his tight hold. He looks down to the table but he doesn't see it. There are tears are in his eyes. And Daniel hasn't a clue what to do. Comfort the man?

Todd nods, understanding, a slight rasp to his breathing, only inches from John's face. He says something that Daniel doesn't quite catch. He hears the words 'Genii cell.' and 'instilled with conscience.' John looks stung and it's as much as he can do to remain upright. Daniel fights back the urge to intervene. This is all personal stuff and Daniel feels like an intruder. He feels he ought to keep his distance, take a walk. He feels he doesn't belong here, eavesdropping on this conversation...

"It began with you and I do not know whether to curse or thank you. I believe it is the former…"

Suddenly, Todd's hand is at John's temple, and John stares at Todd. Fear. Betrayal. Incomprehension. But mainly fear.

"Hey!" Daniel moves to grab at the hand. His heart rate is out of this world for how can he stop the Wraith? He can't understand why Todd is doing this despite the assurances. All a trap? The words, 'you can't trust a Wraith, ever,' are ringing in his ears. But Todd releases his hand in an instant, and catches at a semi-collapsed John, easing him down onto the chair. He flicks a warning glance at Daniel not to interfere, a glance that covers up the Wraith's own look of hurt that mirrors John's. The Wraith then awkwardly gets himself to one knee again, his eyes flitting across John's face.

John looks at him with more of that fear. But it's not Todd that he fears.

"I see. I see. I see," says the Wraith, over and over. "Why is it, then, that you do not? I envy you. John Sheppard."

And he shakes his head. And moves a hand to hold onto one arm of the chair. Daniel can only see the gesture as one of pity.

"You haven't asked why we decided to drop the feeding? Has it not occurred to you why? There were those of us who had no part in the plunder of Earth. We held back. We longed for the days of old when human numbers of Pegasus were suffice for all Wraith but we were victims of our own success. Our numbers could never be supported. And so began the campaign of greed for power and dominion. In the process, we were destroying more than we were harvesting. Without a queen, my hive… I was left to question this. Those Wraith who perished on Earth met their just rewards. We learnt our lesson. We stopped feeding. We turned on our Queens who had instigated this. Drones are no more. See." And he uses a hand to indicate the guards. "There are no Drones here. But a new dilemma faces us... purpose. Purpose. It suited my hive well enough to see that Atlantis remained safe. It gave us purpose." His eyes look from up to Daniel and back to John, questioning. "Sentimentality. You would never believe it of a Wraith ten thousand years ago, would you? I must be an older fool than I realise…" He looks down to a space to John's left, shaking his head again in disbelief.

John has slumped to one side of the chair, his head leaning back, his breaths coming jerky and irregular. One hand is gripping the other free arm, the other lies across his stomach. It's obvious he's in pain but he won't let that stop him hearing out the rest of Todd's story.

"And the truth that you demand, John Sheppard?" asks Todd, wearily getting to his feet. "Three and a half thousand years ago, we came across a colony that calls itself 'Atlantis', with its legends of its founders - Teyla Emmagan, Evan Lorne, Radek Zelenka, Richard Woolsey, Jennifer Keller. A dozen other names of those who had been scientists or soldiers."

"There's no mention of..." begins Daniel.

Todd has walked over to the far wall again, to the shadows again.

"Just so. The legend omits the obvious three, does it not?" He takes a deep breath, fingering the wall of the room as he talks. "Atlantis was in the port of… Perth, for repairs. The humans had against all odds won the war. They did not know it for certain. The human population had suffered greatly, scattered across Earth in remote, protected pockets of resistance. They assumed that more Wraith would follow. They never knew there were those of us who hung back, not prepared to participate in any attack. Not many, granted. But the Wraith on Earth had not been willing to divulge the location of Earth to others of their kind either. They wanted Earth all to themselves. The major battles were all over. Wraith numbers were drastically diminished. There were still sporadic skirmishes. But, essentially, the humans had won."

"We had to... we had to kill every last one of them... We couldn't trust that word wouldn't get out," interrupts John. "They were…" and he swallows both at the pain and at the memory of how close the outcome had been.

"Yes. Indeed. Desperate weeks," finishes Todd for him, turning back to face the room. "At this point, one group of Wraith attacked and successfully boarded Atlantis whilst on a test run in orbit above Earth. She was followed by what must have been the last four Wraith vessels. Their last desperate attempt for supremacy. They lost their own craft. But in their carelessness to take Atlantis, they inflicted serious damage, leaving her with little power. She was stranded. Wasn't going anywhere. But the Wraith had among their number the best scientists we have ever known. The leaders of the whole invasion. Prime personnel who had evaded capture and detection for so long. Who had first devised shielding and the more powerful means to travel to the Milky Way. It would only have been a matter of time before they would be able to 'fix' Atlantis.

A team from Earth under John Sheppard was sent in to retake her. Dr. McKay, already on board, succeeded in opening the Gate for vital minutes sufficient to allow in a small force. Small, yes. It was too small. Some of the Earth scientists were held as hostages by Wraith and these were strategically placed all over the city. John Sheppard needed more men in order for his mission to be accomplished. He was outnumbered."

"So… they… vented the ship to suffocate the Wraith," says John slowly, as the truth dawns on him.

"It was a last final... sacrifice," nods Todd.

"But that meant…" says Daniel, horrified.

"Yes. Not only did they lose their own lives, but those of the hostages also."

"He… we… I had to do it…" John leans on the table, burying his head in his hands. "They... would have killed every one on Earth." His voice is muffled.

Daniel stoops at John's side. "Hey," he says, and helplessly places a hand round John's shoulder.

And Todd walks over, head held to one side. A Wraith with compassion?

"You need have no regrets, John Sheppard. In the same position, I would have been compelled to follow this exact same course of action. It is the way of the soldier. It is the way of war that there always are innocent casualties. And you know… you know that you have been… _forgiven._"

John looks up desolate. He's not convinced. He's not consoled. And there's nothing that Daniel can say or do to make that right.

"How many... civilians died? Do you know?" he asks, his voice a mere whisper, his eyes pleading.

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen… is… damn… too many." And he lowers his face into his hands again. He's trembling, shivering more than ever.

"Please." Todd limps forward another step. "This is why I wished to refrain from telling you. John Sheppard was not to blame. It was the Wraith who attacked Earth who were to blame. There is little doubt that the decision that was made on board Atlantis prevented the vessel from being used as a weapon against Earth and preserved her for future use."

"How do you know all this? We've found no data," asks Daniel, looking up from John.

Todd turns away. He's hesitant with a reply. "I had my pride. I did not want history to know that Wraith had been defeated so utterly by man. I wiped all records. I even had cleared the wreckage of Wraith ships." He sniffs with the practicality. "They made good salvage."

"But we found no human remains. Only Wraith," presses Daniel.

"I left the Wraith there to shame them. To caution other Wraith what might befall them if they attempted to take Atlantis."

Daniel winces and suddenly carries an image in his head of dead crows hanging out on a farmer's fence as a warning to other crows.

"But the… humans?" asks John, huskily.

"They lay buried together on Myelgia, a planet not far from here. I gave them something of a funeral which I believe is the custom. I could not return them to Earth. I might have been shot out of the skies."

"The rest… tell me the rest."

Daniel looks at John. He's sure he can't take anymore. He's close to collapsing, leaning on one arm of the chair, sinking his head gratefully against Daniel's shoulder. And Daniel changes position to slide his hand further round the man to support him.

"John. You don't have to put yourself through any of this."

"I'm fine. I need… I need to know. Go on."

"Very well. It appears that John Sheppard was his usual brave self to the very end. He insisted that all but three should leave via the Gate. My retrieved data indicates that the Gate was opened to another Milky Way Gate, that the Gate at Cheyenne Mountain had been shut to prevent the Wraith returning to Earth, that it had been opened only long enough to permit the small task force to enter Atlantis."

Todd sighs as he sees John lift a hand to swipe at his face and then leaves it there to cover his eyes. He turns and paces again with his hands clasped behind his back, continuing like some lecture, as if… as if keeping all this impersonal and factual, helped in delivering it.

"From the position of the bodies of the three, from the numbers of Wraith that received gunshot wounds and lay in the vicinity, John Sheppard and Ronon Dex first defended the Gateroom to enable the escape of survivors, and then fell back to protect Dr McKay as he engineered the venting of air." John drops his hand and lifts his head, attentive again, his face distraught at the mention of his friends' names.

"In a struggle, John Sheppard was apparently overpowered and shot with his own sidearm through the heart. Ronon Dex, wounded also, was found at Dr McKay's side. They had both suffocated." Daniel can feel John tense beside him, hear his sharp intake of breath. Todd lowers his voice to finish. "It was so very close to failing for the humans."

"Hey… hey John…" says Daniel. John shakes his head and closes his eyes. All his weight is now fully on Daniel's arms. Daniel can feel the heat radiating from the guy, and he's shivering badly now. Daniel looks over to Todd. "I really do need to get him back to Earth."

Todd nods understanding. "Yes. It is time for him." Daniel wonders what he means by that. But he's too pre-occupied trying to coax John to drink again. He hears Todd speaking to guards.

"It is all arranged. I have called for the others and you will all be returned to Atlantis. We will bother Atlantis and Earth no more. And I speak for all Wraith."

Daniel's aware of Todd watching him closely, as he helps John to the floor again before he falls there. He settles himself on the floor also, quickly removing his jacket to place under John's head.

"I do not know your name, human," says Todd curiously.

"It's Daniel Jackson."

"He is dying, Daniel Jackson."

"No, he's just very sick."

"Hmmm…" The Wraith sounds doubtful. "I envy you. I envy you humans."

Daniel looks up at him, questioning. He can remember Todd saying that to John earlier.

"You have such freedom. Ah, freedom! This, this…" and the Wraith waves a hand over the expanse of the room but he means so much more, "would not come under any definition of freedom!"

And Todd walks off, back to his desk, and half-turns, looking back at the two men, head held down, his hair concealing most of his expression. "I have said that I am patient. I have said that I speak of truth. But that would be an untruth. I find I am impatient for…" He shakes his head as if incredulous that he could be talking this way, thinking these things. "I find that since we have ceased feeding… well, here is a truth… I envy humans their release, their freedom. I envy humans… To have this release from life. For Wraith, there is… nothing."

-oAo-


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

There are lights all round. And dark figures that whisper. But the light doesn't claim him yet. He is still tethered to life. To darkness.

He's uncomfortable and wants to move. But there are tubes so he mustn't move. Daniel's whisper is there. He needs to ask… to ask… he remembers that Atlantis is safe. Then the pain hits sickening, cutting in two and he's swallowing in desperate lungs full of oxygen from the mask.

"John, John, keep calm, try not to move," the whispers say. "We're getting you back as fast as we can."

Back? Back where?

The whispers don't say.

The lights circle like fireflies, sending him to darkness.

-oAo-

Daniel looks down at John, sleeping. A spaghetti of wires surrounds him, to support each and every one of his organs. Daniel can honestly say he's never seen so much equipment to keep a man alive. And he can also admit, he's been unprepared for how quickly John's condition has worsened to this point of life threatening.

"So tell me," he asks, "is this anything I should be concerned about?" He doesn't mean to appear selfish but he has to know.

They assure Daniel that he's ok. That this pattern of deterioration doesn't look like it's happening to Daniel. He would have shown signs by now. And John had been too long in cryonics, had already encountered difficulties in the latter stages. They say they thought they had put things right. That there are still opportunities to put things right. That they are not going to give up on John just yet.

But if John dies, Daniel will be alone. Yeah, he's selfish. But he's not sure how he feels about being alone. He believes if he keeps busy, which is what he wants to do, then it won't be a problem.

The Gate is open now. He can be given a new team and he can explore the Milky Way and Pegasus all over. Todd and all signs of Wraith are gone. He tells Earth's new military that he supposes that Todd is keeping his word and will stay away. But can you ever trust a Wraith?

Daniel awkwardly puts his hands in his pockets. There's nothing he can do to help John now. He shakes his head. This is the part of being a team that's crap, when they lay injured or helpless in some way – and he supposes that John has become his 'team.'

He hadn't realised the man was so sick. Osterholt has theorised that it's psychological as much as medical, but then Osterholt would say that. John simply does not want to be here, Osterholt had said. He belongs elsewhere, he'd said.

"Where, heaven?" Daniel had half-joked.

But Osterholt hadn't replied.

And Daniel remembers Todd's hand at John's temple. Had Todd also seen that?

And Daniel goes through all the memories of the last few days. Because watching a man struggling for life makes you kinda do that. Sifting through all the conversations. Wondering where things went wrong. Feeling guilt that sometimes he might have said the wrong thing. He remembers a conversation with John. When they'd been killing time, waiting for the ready for the Gate. They'd been taking a walk along the concrete tunnels of Cheyenne. Couldn't walk above ground because of the sub-zero temperatures and a howling blizzard.

"You don't really want to be here do you? Admit it. You don't feel like you belong." Daniel had been light-hearted and hadn't meant to be taken seriously. He'd simply been taking the piss out of the way that Osterholt talked.

"No. No, I don't." And John had been all set to storm off. And Daniel, surprised by how suddenly sensitive John was, and feeling bad, had grabbed him by the arm. It'd been the closest they'd ever come to falling out, he's sure of that.

"Hey! It's not that I'm saying you're weak or anything. That I'm better than you. "

"Then what _are_ you saying?" John had asked bitterly. "You've just got more of a sense of adventure?" Where had that come from?

"I seem to recall we all volunteered for the Stargate programme. Why did you join in the first place if it weren't for a sense of adventure?"

"I flipped a coin and it said 'heads.' " With that, John had walked away.

"There you go," Daniel had murmured, "risk, adventure."

-oAo-

Daniel is waiting outside John's room. Now and then, he peers through the small round window set in the door. He lifts his optics and wipes at tired eyes, feeling exhausted by the bedside vigil he's been keeping these last two days.

Hjelm, Osterholt and a doctor, who Daniel hasn't seen before, are inside, huddled in a discussion at the foot of the bed.

Daniel has to admit to butterflies. His stomach lurches as the three approach the door and he stands back, making way for the door to flap open, admitting the three out into the corridor.

Hjelm reaches forward and shakes his hand. He says he is sorry. He says they've all made a dreadful mistake. He says he hopes they can make amends now. There are even tears in the old man's eyes. Hjelm is here on behalf of the Ethics Committee. The vote was unanimous this time round. Daniel watches his back as the man leaves. The man's shoulders sag as he walks slowly down the corridor. It had been a unanimous decision but not an easy one.

"You are ready?" asks the doctor. "He will be awake soon and we are facing time limitations before the pain sets in once more."

Daniel glances to the door that hasn't quite come to a halt and is still swinging slightly. He finds himself ridiculously wondering why they haven't installed something automatic. He nods numbly. He's shoving hands deep into pockets.

"Though... I'm not exactly looking forward to this. Not something you do every day, is it? You know that, in our time, in most countries, this was still frowned on?"

Osterholt has already prepped him. And Daniel has already told him that.

Osterholt, as usual, had asked him, 'How do you feel? What are your thoughts?'

'I don't know... I honestly don't know...' Daniel had said.

Osterholt had assured him. 'He is unhappy. It is for the best.' But is that enough of a reason?

The three enter the room. The room's lighting is subdued. A nurse looks up from her place beside the bed. She reels off some facts and figures in a low voice at the doctor's ear and handing him a data pad, leaves.

The doctor goes to John's side. Since Daniel has last seen John, the breathing apparatus has been removed, replaced by a nasal tube. The man still looks like crap, pasty with dark rings under closed eyes. He is half-sitting, propped up on a mound of pillows. His hair is limp against his fore head. There's a sheen from fever. On top of everything else, John's immunisation system is shot to pieces.

"John. John. Can you hear me?" asks the doctor.

And John stirs, scarcely able to open his eyes. He blearily looks round, trying to focus on the room, on the medical equipment.

"Whas wrong with me?" he struggles out. He's been told a thousand times but the doctor patiently repeats it.

"You remember Dr. Carson Beckett. How he was cloned?"

"Yeah... Organs failed... Same as me, huh?"

"At this very moment, we are preparing replacements from your DNA."

"But… There's… always… a but." He closes his eyes. His breath is already coming in gasps and he's drawing heavily on the oxygen. He prises them open again, squinting towards the doctor.

"There is no guarantee, John, that the same thing won't re-occur."

John is silent. Taking this in.

Osterholt continues. "We know how you feel about being cloned. How it has made you unhappy."

He's still silent. His eyes shut and open again. Searching the room, seeming to sense that Daniel is standing in the shadows away from the bed. But he sees nothing. Daniel knows he is nearly blind now.

"We believe," Osterholt glances at the doctor who shakes his head. "Correction,_ I_ believe this might be why your organs are being rejected. It is not entirely due to the overlong cryonics stage."

"You guys… you guys read too much…" and John seems to sink further back into the pillows, too tired with the attempt to talk.

"John…" defends Osterholt, "John, you know it…"

"What is this? You saying it's my own damn fault?" John lifts his head, and the machines seem to go mad at his effort. He raises a hand but is prevented by the tubes in his arms. He gasps with some new pain, and collapses back again, closing his eyes once more. The doctor quickly sees to one monitor that's been sending off a high pitched whine. He adjusts the fluid level in some sort of tubing and gradually the noise dies down.

The doctor indicates to a clock. "Please," he remonstrates with Osterholt. Time is running out. "Please do not upset him. We may... lose him..."

"John…" prompts Osterholt and he looks up anxiously to the doctor, wondering why he's not getting any response. "John," he tries again.

"I admit it," John says suddenly, re-opening his eyes. "I… admit it. There... Happy now?" He sighs. "I don't... I don't belong here." There are tears in his eyes as he stares up, unseeing, towards the ceiling.

"We know. We understand how difficult this has been. There has been grief for your friends too. Grief for a life that has passed. We're sorry that we put you through this. We had no right. But we did not know, did not fully comprehend how it might be a wrench from... I suppose death... _peace_ that you must have experienced. There will be no more cloning, certainly not of those already... passed away." John has shut his eyes once more.

"John? Can you hear?"

"Yeah... I hear."

He hand twitches in an attempt to wipe his tears. He peers down to see what's preventing his hand, but can't see the tubes. He seems confused. The doctor steps back and beckons Daniel in, beckons Daniel to take hold of John's hand. It's awkward for Daniel. But he knows it's needed. If the situation were reversed, he knows he'd be grateful for the same gesture.

"Hey, it's me. Daniel," he says simply.

John nods. And it's enough.

Osterholt swallows hard and continues to explain. Oddly, this seems to be difficult for him. "John, on Earth now, when someone is facing a critical illness such as this, and feels they have fulfilled their rightful term on earth, euthanasia or, self-euthanasia is practiced. Do you know what this means?"

He nods again. "Suicide."

"We don't see it like that. Those who elect to do this, do so when they are currently in good health. They undergo hours of counselling. It's never then a result of depression, the wish to escape the pain of the illness."

"I don't run away. Ever." He knows what they are driving at.

"We understand. But we're satisfied that... though you are outside our preferred timescale of free choice, you would rather not be here... that you don't belong. Those are your words. You feel... displaced. Your circumstances are exceptional. You have, therefore, been granted a special dispensation by the Ethics Committee to make this decision now. It is your decision. Yours alone. We are not forcing the issue. The transplants and all the surgery will be ready for you if you decide to... 'remain' here. Nothing will be denied you. But we are certain that if you come to this decision, it's not because of the illness, but that it is due to a belief that this is simply not your time to be here on Earth. You have been receiving sedation to take the pain away, but this has been reduced so you can still make that choice with a lucid mind. That is our legal requirement. You must be given advice too. We must answer any questions you may have to help you reach a decision. And even if you decide to accept surgery, this 'quiet death' as we call it, is always yours, at a later date, if you should ever require it. _Do_ you have any questions, John?"

There is a pause before John replies eventually.

"How?" His voice is low and husky.

"A drug," puts in the doctor. "You will simply go to sleep. You will feel nothing. This has to be administered by yourself or by someone that you select. A friend like Daniel. That's one reason why we have asked him to be present."

"What... what do you think?" Daniel is listening to all this, studying the bedclothes. He feels John's hand tightening, tensing in his. The question is directed to him and he wishes it weren't.

He shakes his head. "It's not for me, John. It's not for me to decide."

"Not... not asked you yet?"

"Actually…" and he has thought about it and nothing else for the past twenty-four hours. " I imagine the capacitor would argue that my motives were questionable. I'd want to be with Sha're," says Daniel quietly.

John falls silent and seconds pass. The doctor believes he has fallen asleep.

"John?"

John abruptly flicks open his eyes.

"You..." he swallows, "have a coin? No... I forgot. No money."

"A coin? I don't understand," says Osterholt, looking from Daniel to the doctor, who's equally mystified.

"As a matter of fact, John, you know that I still have your dime?" Daniel lets go of John's hand and retrieves John's dime out of a pocket. He doesn't know why he still carries it. He just does. Some link to the past?

Osterholt and the doctor are still baffled.

"Do it. Heads. Heads I... go," says John.

Osterholt cottons on to what Daniel is about to do. "I'm not certain if this is in order."

"You said it was his decision," points out Daniel. "You didn't say how he should reach it."

Daniel flips the coin, slaps it down on the back of his hand and takes a peek.

"Want best of three?" he asks.

"It's heads," says John, leaning back, as if resigned to his fate.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," confirms Daniel.

"You do not have to do this. You do not have to be bound by this." Osterholt is getting flustered. He looks to the doctor for appeal. "Please re-consider. I'm not certain if this is legal."

"I've decided," says John. He's sick but Daniel can hear from his tone that he's determined now.

"You asked me here to be a witness. To make sure he's not pushed into anything. He's decided," says Daniel to Osterholt.

The doctor nods. He goes to a counter in the shadows of the room and returns with a needle linked via a strap to some small device. He swabs John's left wrist and inserts the needle's point. John, with closed eyes, barely winces. The doctor then wraps the binding round John's wrist, attaching the device. He gently takes hold of John's thumb and guides it to a small button on the device.

"You press here when you are... ready. It's very light. It requires little pressure. This then opens the valve. John, only when you are ready." John wearily lifts his head and hazily tries to look down but fails.

"Ever felt like a condemned man?" The question, the joke is aimed at Daniel. And Daniel admires the man's attempt at humour at a time like this.

"I don't understand," says Osterholt again, looking from John to Daniel.

"They have no crime, so no death row, no death penalty," says Daniel, smiling slightly.

"No. They don't, do they?"

Osterholt is still puzzled but doesn't pursue it.

"Do I… do I get special requests … like… being alone?" asks John, sucking in hard on the oxygen again. It's getting more and more difficult to get his breath back between words. But considering how ill he is, John is suddenly very coherent. It's as if… it's as if he now has purpose...

"I regret. No. There has to be at least two witnesses present. I'll leave if you like," offers Osterholt.

"No... No matter. At least... turn off the camera."

Daniel looks up sharply. How did John know?

"Apologies. Another legal requirement. For your safety. It has to be ensured that we have not actually... _murdered_ you."

"Any more 'legal require... requirements' I should know about?"

"John… your… remains…"

"I have to make a will?"

"I don't understand again. Your remains-"

"I'd not thought... I'd honestly not thought. I'm already buried on some planet somewhere... jeez... I don't know." He buries his head in the pillow. His resolve cracks and there's tears again and his right hand clenches at Daniel's again. "Why am I... feeling... so damn sorry for myself?"

"You're allowed. On this occasion, you're allowed, you know?" says Daniel.

"We were hoping..." continues Osterholt, awkward about intruding with practicalities, "the Atlantis Memorial. May we ask for permission to place your ashes there?"

"Yeah," John says faintly. "But... no statues. Nothing like that. No choirs. No speeches. No grand parade."

He attempts to look down at his strapped wrist again. The tears well again.

"I'm tired, Daniel."

"Yeah, I know. You don't have to justify anything, John. And-" Daniel finds it's not easy to get his words out. Osterholt has given him counselling, but when it comes to it, he's not prepared for this. Who is? "And, yeah," he coughs into his free hand, "I'll miss you. You still owe me a game of chess, you know? At least, an equaliser. And... keep a place warm for me, huh?" he says, trying to keep the mood light when it's anything but.

"Sure... sure. See you on the other side."

"Yeah."

"I'll be ok, Daniel."

"Yeah. Sure you will."

"So... now what?"

"I dunno. Some famous last words?"

"Yeah. Don't eat gum."

-oAo-

He lays back and squeezes his eyes tight. The pain's crowding in now. His head hurts. The doctor whispers with Osterholt.

"If he doesn't do this soon. It will be too late. It'll be said it was the pain… then it will have to be another day..."

I'm tired, he thinks. And thinks too, that he's thought that too many times lately and meant it.

Osterholt whispers something. He hears Daniel whispering back. "I couldn't do this. No way." And Daniel… he feels Daniel draw back into the deeper shadows at the edge of his vision.

Osterholt whispers something.

They think he can't hear. They're giving him space. Discreet. He feels he should thank them, but he's just too damn tired.

He's made up his mind. The flip of a coin. Then why doesn't he just press the freaking button?

He threw his life down back then, for the greater good. Now... this is for him. Pure and selfish. But he's dying anyway…

You can never tell which way a coin will fall, but neither are there ever guarantees about the outcome of choices.

He sacrificed the lives of others for the greater good… but Todd said… hey, Todd of all people… an alien… a Wraith said… _he is forgiven_…

He's killed a lot of guys… but… _he is forgiven._

There are whispers.

He's sure there are whispers.

He sees his mother, his father, his brother as a happy family. Somewhere he hears the distant laughter of a boy.

Somewhere, he sees Teyla.

She whispers through the tears.

'We will meet again, John. I know it.' Words choke him as he watches her disappear into the blue. He knows so clearly, so exactly what she means by her whisper.

The noise of the final fight is like the hush of an evening tide. Light flashes and dances around them, slow, like the sun caught in a breeze that caresses the overhead leaves of a forest glade.

Ronon grips his arm firm though he whispers, his voice is only as a sigh.

'Hey buddy, it's been good knowing you.'

'The best,' is all John can reply.

And they nod to Rodney, who nods back. And there's tears in his eyes too.

"Too many memories," he murmurs out loud. Though… they can't possibly be _his_ memories… so long ago...

And the light catches in the stained glass of Atlantis and she seems to scream out his name, to beg him not to leave, though she has no words. She never has words, when she speaks to him. It's as if… she's part of the light too.

But he has decided. He has decided to leave.

A darkness comes out of the shadow. He fights the darkness as Atlantis screams out his name. Pain pierces his chest and he drowns in the darkness.

"John? John?"

He jerks open his eyes but the dim light seems to burn bright… beckoning… _you are forgiven…_

"Guys… hey guys… where are you?"

"We're here," says Daniel somewhere in the shadows.

"No… I mean…" _The Others…_

_You are forgiven…_

There's a monitor whining loudly and someone whispers his name.

"Ok… it's ok… I'm ready."

Someone whispers again. Offers to help. But he's going to do this. He's decided now. He can fight. He can always fight. But sometimes it's harder to surrender… to surrender to the thought that he doesn't have to fight… not anymore… no more duty... freedom... he can let go…

And he squeezes his thumb against the device. Feels instantly a wave of numbing warmth surging through his body. The drug is a poison, after all, he guesses.

"There's a light." And his own voice sounds surprised.

And another voice that's distant says, "it's over."

But it's never over, never finishes.

A light. A white light.

It's nearly like... nearly like... And words fade.

The light grows larger. Takes him. And releases him. Free.

The Others are there. And he is home again. He is wrapped in light. And ghosts wrap him in love like he's never been gone...

End

_A new amended ending after a suggestion from Endgame65. Many thanks. Reviewers comments are always appreciated._


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